The Sunset Starks
by SoulGamesInc
Summary: Brandon the Shipwright attempted to sail across the Sunset Sea, but never returned, his tomb in the crypts of Winterfell remaining empty. He made landfall on what would become the Sunset Islands and now the youngest son of Brandon VII Stark attempts to cross the Sunset Sea and return to Westeros, this is the tale of his adventure and what it means for Westeros. Winter is Coming.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, i do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so i ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but i have no real schedule. Please review with your thoughts as i'd love the feedback.

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Notes: I wanted to do something with the Starks, thought about doing a son of Benjen Stark, but just another Stark has been done before. I cannot find any fanfictions that cover Sunset Starks; the descendants of Brandon the Shipwright. As with all my works they are updated at my leisure, nobody else's.

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 **Chapter 1: Prologue**

 _"We made it?"_ The thought echoed through his head as the young prince coughed up a gallon of seawater. _"We made it..."_ Again the words rang, behind the exhaustion and thirst the prince felt an overwhelming scene of pride and joy as he laid on the cold sand of whatever beach he'd washed up on, he had no idea where he was exactly but he'd done what his father and brothers had claimed was impossible. He was, he thought beyond all the doubt, in the fabled land of Westeros. _"Or I died and this is some cruel jest..."_ He thought as he faded in and out of consciousness, somebody was dragging him but he was too weak to do anything but mumble incoherently and hope he wasn't being dragged off for dinner by some local cannibals. Prince Willam had a bit of an active imagination.

"Rise and shine little prince, we didn't sail all this way for you to die now." He knew that voice, that son of-

"We made it!" Willam cried with joy after tackling his brother to the floor, who quickly pushed him off and proceeded to brush the sand off his cloths. "WE FUCKING MADE IT!" Willam screamed at the top of his voice at nobody in particular, hoping somehow his family would hear his cry from across the vast ocean. _"We did make it right?"_ He thought suddenly as doubts beset him and he decided to voice his thought rather than standing around like an idiot. "We _did_ make it right, brother?"

"How should I know?" Cregan rolled his eyes, he was such a prick sometimes. "This shoreline stretches for miles, sit down before you hurt yourself."

"Are you not excited brother?" Willam smiled at his dour bastard of a brother, he clasped him on his shoulders and shook the prick. "We made it! We fucking made it!"

"I heard you the first hundred times."

"Why did I bring you along again?" Willam signed, taking a swig of water from the flask Cregan offered.

"Your father saw an opportunity to rid himself of the bastard and the trouble maker," Cregan continued to crudely sharpen his sword using a rock he'd found from somewhere, Willam really wasn't paying much attention. "While your celebrating you may want to know that Edwyn is with us."

"Where?" Willam gave his surroundings a quick scan for show, "I don't see him, I fear you've got a case of ocean madness..."

"I'll gut you with this sword." Cregan kept his face blank.

"You wouldn't dare," Willam called his bluff. "Farther would have your head."

"Fathers not here."

 _"Shit,"_ Willam thought as he paused to think of his next play.

"Well?"

"This." Willam kicked sand in the bastards face, laughing as the crazed bastard shot up from his seat.

"I leave for a few minutes and your already trying to kill each other." Edwyn returned to find the brothers wrestling in the sand, Cregan getting the clear upper hand over the young prince. "You know this could be considered treason Snow, what would your father say if he heard of you murdering your little brother?"

"Thanks for doing me a favor?"

Willam smacked him over the back of the head and ducked under his brothers swing, "If you two are quite done there could be other survivors along the coast, we should start searching before nightfall. Or we could move inland, saw a dirt road not far from the shore that I bet will lead to something eventually."

"We search for awhile," Willam turned serious for a moment after giving his brother another slap across the head. "They came because of me, I wont abandon them."

"I grabbed this before we capsized," Edwyn held out a long sword in it's scabbard and offered it to his prince, the blade was made of strong steel mined on the Sunset Islands, a howling wolf's head of dark stone from the cliffs of home for the pommel with chips of diamond for the wolves eyes, to reflect Willam's own ghostly grey eyes. "Your father would have my head if you lost this."

"My thanks Ed," Willam drew it out far enough to read the inscription of 'Winter Is Coming' that graced the blade. It had been a departing gift from his father, his way of wishing Willam luck and expressing his love, without doing so too publicly. Willam strapped the sword belt to his waist and processed to search the shore, finding nobody, to his sorrow. _"They came because I asked it of them,"_ He thought to himself as he looked out at the sea. "They'd keep looking for _me_ Ed, we'll do no different for them. I'll not have it said that we gave up so bloody easily."

"It'll be dark soon," Edwyn replied. "We should camp for the night, search again in the morning."

Cregan agreed as he kept an eye on the nearby dirt path. "I doubt we'll find many others, those in armor are surely lost to us. Others could have washed up anywhere along the coast, dead or alive, we could spend days looking for all we know. I would rather we follow the path and get some understanding of this land."

Willam sighed, defeated. "We camp for the night, in the morning we'll follow the road and see where it takes us."

The night was oddly warmer than they were used to, it seemed the Islands were deeper north than wherever they landed in Westeros. The words of Winter Is Coming were a reminder of the hardships that struck Willam's people, they were not called the Sunset Islands because the sun always shun, the sun would set and the cold would follow. Winter was always coming and it would show no mercy. "We're leaving little prince."

"Five more minutes..." Willam waved his hand to shoo away the annoying voice that would tear him from his dream of home. The sunset sea crashing upon the rocks outside his window, his brothers sparring in the courtyard, the naked women that laid next to-

"Wake up!" Cregan kicked him.

"Fuck!" Willam cursed, gods he hated that bastard sometimes.

"We're losing daylight my prince," Edwyn spoke sense. "I think it best we take full advantage."

"Agreed," Willam rubbed his eyes and made sure to grab his sword, having sworn last night never again to be parted with the blade.

The duo walked for awhile before they came across a small village, flying no banner that they knew from the Islands or any of the many books detailing the old Kingdom of Winter. "I think it best that we make no mention of your title, my prince." Edwyn suggested, as if Willam ever demanded he or anyone call him by his titles.

"Now is as good a time as ever for you to stop, Ed." Willam replied with a grin.

"No worries about my titles," Cregan muttered.

"Cregan Snow, Prince of being a prickly bastard." Willam shot a smile at his brother, who in turn looked like he was going to kill him.

"We've got company." Edwyn whispered, moving his hand slowly to his swords hilt.

The villager seemed harmless enough, armed with a small dagger likely used for the skinning of caught game. Hunting was a sparse trade on the Islands but not absent, the largest of the Islands boasted a large forrest with hares and other critters but in truth most of the Islands food came from the sea. "Travelers, eh?" The man spoke with an eyebrow raised and his hand hovered over his dagger. "Don't get many newcomers around here."

"We're sellswords," Edwyn was the first to come up with a story, having stupidly prepared nothing beforehand. "Just passing through."

"Fancy blade for a sellsword." The man motioned at Willams sword, likely noting diamonds in the pommel.

"A gift from a wealthy lord we fought for once, a long time ago." Willam replied with a warm smile.

"That so?" The man asked and would've asked more if not for the warning look Cregan shot his way. "We've little to offer sellswords around these parts but perhaps the lord has work for you. I honestly couldn't say, times are peaceful, little need for sellswords."

"And what lord would that be?" Willam asked, having no solid idea where they actually where.

The villager seemed shocked by Willam's lack of knowledge. "Ryswell rules these parts, not too far down the east road."

 _"Ryswell."_ Willam tired to remember the books he'd read about Westeros, mainly concerning the old Kingdom of Winter and it's many vassals. Ryswell was a cadet branch of House Ryder, Ed's house, meaning they were indeed in the Kingdom of Winter. "Ryswell," Willam laughed for effect. "How could I forget, cold must be getting to me."

The man clearly didn't believe that for a second, the cold in truth was nothing compared to the norm on the Islands and it showed on these strangers whom for the most part wore leathers. Whatever furs they had were drenched during the crash so they'd made do with what they had. "Inn's over that way, cant miss it." They gave a nod in response and headed for the inn where they used what coin they had to buy food and dry furs, the innkeep was reluctant to trade.

"What do you mean you wont accept our coin?" Willam was confused and a little insulted.

"These are not stags." The Innkeep shook his head.

Willam narrowed his eyes at the man. "It's still silver, why do you care what's engraved on it?"

"I have never even heard of this currency nor the man on it, could be fake." He continued to turn his nose up at it, smug bastard. "However, those gems on your-"

Cregan pushed Willam aside and addressed the fool. "The only way your getting that sword, old man, is if he drives it through your chest."

A silence watched across the inn before the innkeep decided that "silver was silver" and accepted the payment, quickly sending the three armed men off towards the seat of House Ryswell where Willam hoped they'd be welcomed a lot more warmly. He was wrong, as it seemed he so often found himself being. "Think this is the place?" Cregan asked as he approached some wooden walls, basic but sturdy, no doubt the seat of some lord.

"A black horse's head with a red maine upon a field of bronze," Willam echoed the words he'd read in some book a lifetime ago as he looked at the banners flying above the walls that stood before them. "Similar to House Ryders colors, can hardly tell the difference actually. This is the place."

The gates were open so they walked in without much fuss, until they were stopped at the door to the great hall. "The hall is off limits to all but family and guests." The guard spoke, suspiciously eyeing up the three armed men. "Do you have business with House Ryswell?"

"Sellswords," Edwyn replied, keeping with their previous story. "Here to offer our services to the lord."

The guard seemed hesitant but let them in, following closely behind as they walked towards the high chair at the end of the main room. "M'lord, some sellswords here to speak to you and offer their blades. I thought it best that you deal with them yourself." The guard awaited word from his lord, who quickly signaled his leave, then turned his attention to his uninvited guests.

"I have no use for sellswords," The lord spoke after quickly scanning them for potential, or perhaps threats.

"Forgive the deception, my lord." Edwyn stepped forward and gave a respectful bow. "We are not sellswords."

The guards in the hall became anxious at that as their lord leaned forward on his seat. "I see. Who are you then, to come into my house uninvited under false pretense."

"We mean no harm," Edwyn was quick to explain. "Our ship capsized not long ago, we made our way inshore and-"

"Pirates then." The lord narrowed his eyes at them, giving a signal for his guards to move in closer. "House Ryswell dose not suffer your kind."

"We're no pirates!" Cregan shouted and prepared for a fight, despite the odds being greatly against them. Say what you want about Cregan the man was no craven, he'd sooner die with the taste of blood on his lips than old and in bed. "You'd do well to learn your guests names before attacking them, my lord."

Ryswell seemed to like the boldness of that, since his guards did not draw steel. "Very well, your names then."

"Who rules the North?" Willam interrupted Ed before he could give their names.

"What?" The lord replied, not expecting such a stupid question.

"Who rules the North?" Willam repeated, this time moving his hand over the hilt of his sword. Ryswell's eyes fell on the wolf pommel for a moment before replying.

"House Stark of Winterfell." He replied to Willam's relief, giving Ed the all clear to reveal their names.

"I am Edwyn Ryder, the chap with the temper is-"

"Ryder?" Lord Ryswell turned wide-eyed at the mention of the name.

"Aye." Edwyn replied, curious as to his reaction.

"Seize the traitor!" Ryswell leap from his seat sword in hand. "Kill the others!"

The guards moved in as Edwyn and Cregan moved to protect their prince, but this was not a fight they would win, so Willam did the first thing that came to mind. "I AM WILLAM STARK!" He shouted at the top of his lungs and drew his sword in defense of his friends. "FORTH BORN SON OF PRINCE BRANDON, SEVENTH OF HIS NAME, PRINCE OF THE SUNSET SEA AND LORD OF WINTER!" Prince Willam's eyes burnt with a fury as he screamed his fathers titles at Ryswell, the guards having stopped in their tracks at the mention of Stark and the other outlandish titles, awaiting their lords word. "STRIKE ME DOWN, AND WINTER SHALL COME FOR YOU ALL!"

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 **Summary**

King Brandon the Shipwright attempted to sail across the Sunset Sea, but never returned home, his tomb in the crypts of Winterfell remaining empty. He made landfall on what would become the Sunset Islands, a large chain of islands both large and small. On the largest Brandon built his castle of Winterhold atop the high cliffs overlooking the very beach where he first landed, the city of Brandon's Landing growing in the shadow of Winterhold. Many sons of northern lords, known as The Companions, had traveled with Brandon when he set sail and they wasted no time spreading out across the Islands to begin the construction of their own castles, all sworn to Winterhold and the Princes of the Sunset Sea who in turn remained sworn to the old Kings of Winter despite the countless years that passed without any contact with the Kingdom of Winter, the Sunset Starks never forgot where they came from. More than one uprising was had over the isles fealty to absent Kings.

Now the youngest son of Brandon VII has set sail attempting to cross the Sunset Sea and return to the lands of his ancestors, a feat that the Islanders have long since dismissed as suicidal, for none have ever braved the storms and alleged sea monsters and returned to tell the tale. Prince Willam aims to make a name for himself the only way a forth born son can, by doing the impossible. Prince Brandon VII sends his bastard Cregan Snow to assist him, along with a fine long sword fit for a true Prince.

This tale begins after Willam's screw is shipwrecked, similar to how Brandon the Shipwright found the Sunset Islands in the first place. Winter Is Coming.


	2. Chapter 2: A Thousand Questions

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, i do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so i ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but i have no real schedule. Please review with your thoughts as i'd love the feedback.

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Notes: Another chapter. I'm rather enthralled by this idea and have the next few chapters already plotted out in my head...

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 **Chapter 2: A Thousand Questions**

"STRIKE ME DOWN, AND WINTER SHALL COME FOR YOU ALL!" Willam's empty threat fell on cautious ears as Lord Ryswell ordered his men to take them alive, sending the alleged Prince and his men to some guest quarters, heavily guarded ones, a glorified cell in truth but at least they were alive. _"It could be worse."_ Willam thought as he stared out the only window in the room, they'd been held here for days now.

"If I have to eat another bit of stale bread..." Cregan was becoming more and more disagreeable.

"At least they are feeding us," Willam countered his brothers complaint as he continued to stare out the window. "It could be far worse."

Edwyn remained sat in his chair. "We should have kept our peace, just gone straight for Winterfell."

"And we'd find it how?" Cregan snarled. "I don't know about you Ryder, but I don't have a clue where Winterfell actually is."

"We would've found it eventually."

"And starved or froze to death long before then!" Cregan looked like a rabit wolf, ready to attack anyone or anything that came too close. "It was your name that got us into this fucking mess Ryder! If we just told him Willam's name or even merely asked for some fucking directions-"

"Enough, both of you." Willam snapped at them. "It dose us no good thinking of what could have been, if you wish to blame anyone for this then blame Me. I asked you to come. I spoke of the glory to be had, the riches and fame. All my promises have brought is the death of our friends and our own imprisonment."

"No argument here brother."

"Don't be so hard on yourself my prince," Edwyn shot a look at the bastard. "We knew what we'd signed up for, all went of their own free will and against your fathers wishes at that. Your not to fault for any of this." Kind words did nothing to sooth Willam's wounds, he was to blame for this and there was no use in denying it.

"Persistent as always Ed," Willam smiled for a moment before returning to his view out the window.

"Persistent or blind." Cregan sighed and sat out on the floor, keeping an eye on the door just encase today was the day. "Willam."

"Aye?"

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

Willam laughed at that, he'd been looking out the window since they were tossed in here and only now did either of them bother asking him the question. "I'm waiting, the Ryswells only stayed their blades at the mention of my name as I hoped they would. It stands to reason they put us in here and not some cell because they don't wish to offend me, or more accurately, the Starks of Winterfell."

"The threat of 'Winter' coming for them no doubt scared them a little too." Cregan smiled for a moment before returning to his normal blank self.

"An empty threat," Willam agreed. "It had an effect however, a cautious man cannot afford to risk angering unknown powers."

"How'd you know he'd be cautious?" Cregan asked.

"I didn't," Willam smiled as he saw banners arriving in the distance.

"He seemed all too happy to jump at the opportunity to seize Rayder here and gut the rest of us."

"Your brother makes a point," Edwyn was still confused by Ryswells actions. "Clearly my family has done ill, to be called traitor at the mere mention of my name."

Willam had thought on that, the Ryswells were a cadet branch of the Ryders and a weak one by all the records he'd read. He doubted they had the strength to rebel on their own, more likely the Ryders somehow died out and the Ryswells simply took their place as the next best option. Such a succession would've no doubt rested entirely on all the Ryders being dead, one way or another, the Ryswells reaction at the reveal of a living Ryder really wasn't that surprising in hindsight. "It seems Lord Ryswell has more visitors."

"Banners?" Edwyn shot out of his seat, ready to do whatever it was Willam would ask of him.

"Aye, a running direwolf on an ice-white field." Willam turned around to pick up his sword. "Hard to mistake ones own colors."

"Think we'll need that my prince?" Edwyn eyed the sword, now on Willams person where it belonged. "I'm sure these Starks of Winterfell wouldn't seek to harm their own kin, if they sought our deaths why would Ryswell keep us alive and go to such lengths to avoid harming us?"

"Sport?" Cregan suggested. "Or perhaps the Kings of Winter see us as a threat and want to kill us themselves?"

Willam agreed with his brother for once, too often a rare thing. "We'll do nothing unless provoked, remember the Islands are technically sworn to the Kings of Winter regardless of if they know it or not. We'll show respect." The grey banners had entered the castle grounds now and would be inside the keep shortly. "Understood?"

"Understood."

"Aye."

"Good." Willam sighed and tried to relax, this was a big moment, the first contact the Sunset Islands would have with their long absent kings. It was not long before they heard footsteps coming towards the door that caused Edwyn and Cregan to flank their prince. The first thing Willam noticed was the lack of any crown on the man that now stood before him, a Stark surely enough, but no crown. _"They sent a Prince?"_ He thought, bending the knee regardless. "Your Grace."

The man looked taken aback by the gesture, looking to the Ryswell at his side as if he'd be able to explain. "I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North." Silence at that as Edwyn and Cregan traded looks and Willam remained knelt. "Lord Ryswell tells me you claim kinship with House Stark."

"I-" Willam hesitated. "I am Willam Stark, Prince of the Sunset Sea."

"I'm not aware of any such title," Eddard spoke, still seemingly judging the three men.

"You wouldn't be Your Grace," Willam tried to explain.

"I'm no king lad."

"Forgive me," Willam was frantically thinking of any logical explanation for this, he considered the Starks having been usurped as Kings in the North but if that was the case then why had Ryswell claimed Stark ruled the north? "I was given to believe the Lord of Winterfell traditionally wore the crown, has that changed?"

Eddard's men seemed to be in on some joke that Willam was not finding to be funny. "Winterfell has not held a crown for almost three hundred years, ever since Torrhen Stark bent the knee to save his people from dragonfire and ruin. We have lived in relative peace since then, for a time at least."

 _"Three hundred years."_ Willam went wide-eyed at the realization, the Isles had fought a bloody civil war not a hundred years ago over the matter, his grandfather had won and they continued the tradition of swearing fealty to the Kings of Winter regardless of their being no news from the distant kingdom. The Starks Remember, as the traditionalists would often say. _"It was all for nothing."_ Willan thought as he continued to stare at the ground, distraught at the news, before rising to his feet. There was no cause to kneel before this man. "Our records speak of how it would have been impossible for the southern kingdoms to conquer the North, so how did the North fall?"

Eddard took a moment to look into Willam's eyes, looking for some sign of a lie. "We'll talk over dinner."

"My lord, this one is a Ryder!"

"And this one is a Stark," Eddard shot an icy stare at his bannerman. "There are many questions, my lord, that will be answered in time."

Ryswell seemed to fall into line at that, the promise of answers and Willam's acceptance of bread and salt going a ways to calm the lord down. Guest rights were still held on the Islands so it was a gesture he gladly accepted as this Lord of Winterfell seemed to be agreeable enough. "So," Eddard sat across the table from him. "Tell us your story."

"With pleasure." Willam took a gulp of his wine before beginning. "You know of King Brandon the Shipwright? An old King of Winter that sailed across the Sunset Sea in search of new lands and glory to the West." It seemed they did as those present all nodded, seeming to recall the tale well enough.

"Aye," Eddard replied. "His son assumed him dead and set fire to all of his father's ships in grief. That was the last time the North had any true strength at sea."

Willam raised an eyebrow at that bit of information. "My family prides ourselves on the strength of our fleet, our flag ship The Shipwright is the envy of all we've encountered over the years. She is quite the sight, as deadly as she is beautiful. Odd that the shipwrights son burnt what ships his father left behind."

"The man had lost his father to a fruitless venture." Ryswell countered, keeping his eyes firmly on Ryder from across the table.

"Not so fruitless it would seem," Eddard gestured for Willam to continue his tale.

"Our records say Brandon lost many ships to the storms and terrors of the deep, making landfall with barely a quarter of the fleets original size. The first thing King Brandon did after building Winterhold was order the construction of a statue in the center of Brandon's Landing to honor those that did not survive the journey." Willam paused to remember the rest and the names engraved on the statue, it had been some time since he'd read the old tale and longer since he'd truly thought on it at length.

"Brandon's Landing?" One of Eddard's men asked.

"A city," Willam replied. "More of a small village at first, built at the site where Brandon's fleet made landfall and as Winterhold grew in strength so did the village, within a few years it became a small city and main trade hub of the Islands. A few hundred years passed, now the city is host to the Winter Fleet and around fifty thousand souls from the Islands and elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" The same man asked, nobody seemed intent on stopping his curiosity.

Willam was happy to share his peoples history. "Not long after Brandon made landfall and the other nobles settled the smaller islands with holdings of their own, we sent out men in search of potential trade or perhaps more fertile land to settle. We've since opened trade with a people in a forested region that the locals call Mossovy, strange folk, but after they grew accustomed to our sails on their shores we became fast friends and began trading lumber and other such goods. They've also remarkable knowledge of herbs that they were happy to share the secrets of once we gained their trust."

The men across the table seemed to doubt his words. "Mossovy?" Ryswell's maester spoke in a hushed tone. "That is a land to the far east."

Willam was confused at that, the chances of two lands claiming same name seemed unlikely. It was the names the locals gave after all. "West, not east."

"I think I know more about such things than some bo-"

"You will not insult our guests maester." Eddard commanded, in truth Willam was too busy thinking up explanations for the mans claim to be at all insulted. If people from Westeros knew of Mossovy then perhaps that was his road home. "Please continue Prince Willam, it seems you've much to tell us."

"As you say," Willam shook the thought from his mind, he'd return to that later. "The first land our ships came across was barren for the most part, a cold and endless desert. What men we stationed there at first were butchered by raiders, we've avoided the wastes since and sailed further west along the shore until we found the Mossovy. Not a few hundred years ago a son of Lord Fisher sailed deeper west and ventured to what he named the Hundred Islands, or in jest he called them the Hostile Islands."

Another follow up question. "Hostile Islands?"

"The inhabitants are beyond fearful of anything foreign," Willam began. "Fisher landed and found himself beset upon by men and women with green-tinged skin and sharpened teeth, wielding no steel, they were quickly cut down although Fisher lost a handful of men during the initial shock. Hence he cursed the place as the Hostile Islands and returned home after seeing to the teeth marks that one or two of his men had suffered from the locals attack. The natives of Mossovy call them demons."

"You've not tried talking to these people like you did with the Mossovy?"

"No," Willam stated bluntly. "The people of Mossovy were curious, willing to communicate, they never attacked us nor we them. The people of the Hundred Islands attacked Fisher on sight and what words they've spoken are short and likely curses. In the recent years there has been talk of taking the islands by force, using them as a way station with the aim of opening trade even further west. It would be a risky venture however and none of the noble houses have deemed it worthy of their time, yet."

"My lord," The maester was seemingly furious. "This man speaks of the Thousand Islands."

Willam did not like being doubted about the history of his own people, it was an insult he did not take kindly to. "I can assure you there are not a thousand islands, our men reported perhaps two hundred or maybe three at most and besides the point these lands you speak of are in the East while the Sunset Sea is in the West."

"Our own reports claim the Thousand Islands in truth match the numbers you just offered, young lord."

Cregan stared at the old man, wondering if it would cause a war if he killed the old fool. "Your calling the Prince a liar?" He challenged the man. "I could consider it treason to question the honor of a prince old man, removal of the tongue has been done before to silence liars. That would be the kindest punishment."

"There will be none of that," Eddard stated firmly. "I'm sure the maester meant no insult."

"No," The old man was quick to suddenly show some courtesy. "Forgive me, Prince Willam."

Willam sighed at that. "There is nothing to forgive, perhaps there is something to be learnt from this information." He paused as the maester raised an eyebrow in question. "I say these lands are to the West and you claim similar lands have been reported to the East. It is possible we could both be right?"

"How so?" The maester replied, clearly curious now.

"There is a wild claim among my people," He began to explain. "Returning to Westeros has always been a dream of ours you see, hence our love towards the open sea, but sailing East across the sunset has always held certain death for those brave or foolish enough to try it. Over the years many explorers from distant lands have visited us however and more than one has suggest sailing West to reach the East. They claimed the oceans are all connected and one could in theory sail West until he reached Westeros, then sail West even further to reach the Sunset Sea. It was an option I considered when planning my own venture."

"An interesting theory," The maester spoke after a moment of thought. "Not unheard of either, there are some in the citadel over the years that have suggested such, while most were mocked for the thought their works surely enough remain in the archives to this day. The citadel will want to know of these new developments."

 _"Could I truly sail home by going East?"_ Willam though to himself for a moment while Edwyn asked a question of Lord Eddard.

"House Ryder rose in rebellion against King Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf." Eddard answered Edwyns question, no doubt the question was about the fate of House Ryder. "History dose not mention why they rose up in any great detail but those times were gripped by war and suffering, he was not called the Hungry Wolf without good reason."

"House Ryswell took their place as Lord of the Rills," Lord Ryswell added his voice with pride. "The Hungry Wolf offered the Ryders no mercy for their treason, removing them to the last man and naming House Ryswell as their successors as the North could not afford such discord with the Andal threat so pressing."

"House Ryder lives," Edwyn countered.

"They rule the New Rills as one of Winterholds most trusted banners." Willam backed up his friends words, making sure that Ryswell knew that Edwyn was not to be harmed. "I trust you understand, my lord, that I will not suffer any harm to befall one of my fathers bannermen. Forgetting that he is my friend, an attack on our banners is an attack on us."

Eddard quickly put the matter to a finish. "I hold no grudge against your friend Prince Willam, although he and his may no longer claim any right to the Rills."

"We're long disconnected from that branch of the family, rest assured House Ryder of New Rills has no interest in causing trouble." Edwyn tried to put Ryswells fear to rest, although in truth Edwyn couldn't speak for his relations as he was after all a mere cousin to the current Lord of New Rills. "You have my word."

"Glad we've settled that then." Ryswell held a cup up to his new friends, although Willam highly doubted that would be the end of matters. The Lord of the Rills did not strike him as a man so easily appeased, most likely he'd nurse this desire for conflict until his target least expected being struck.

"Prince Willam," Lord Eddard addressed him from across the table. "Now that we have addressed why you came, what are your plans for the future?"

"I had hoped to reconnect the Islands with the Kingdom of Winter," He smiled at the notion that now seemed so foolish. "It seems I have come too late for such a thing and I fear that the news will cause much unrest back home, we have fought more than one conflict over the matter of the Isles sovereignty and to learn that it was all wasted breath? Many will curse me, some will praise me and others may simply refuse to hear me. Regardless it is my duty to inform my father."

"I understand," Eddard got up from his seat followed by his men and Willam did the same. "For now may I suggest you visit Winterfell for a time? It would not do for a Stark to have never laid eyes on it, much less a Prince of my own blood. While there we can discuss your future with us."

"It would be an honor, lord stark."

"The honor is mine." Eddard replied, giving the signal for his men to depart. "We'll leave shortly while the day is still young, the road to Winterfell is quite long but I am certain we'll have much to discuss along the way." Willam shook the mans hand and to his parties relief they were soon leaving the Rills and off to see Winterfell, a castle that Willam had only seen in sketches or paintings made _many_ years ago during the reign of King Brandon the Shipwright. To say he was excited would be a great understatement.


	3. Chapter 3: Winterfell

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, i do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so i ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but i have no real schedule. Please review with your thoughts as i'd love the feedback.

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Notes: Willam arrives at Winterfell. I'll try to get the next chapter out Asap but as always I promise nothing. :P

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Winterfell**

Winterhold held a similar cold beauty but Winterfell struck him as more ancient, the old paintings did not do it justice and it was not hard to picture as the home of his ancestors. Willam closed his eyes for a moment and thought of home as the wind brushed through his raven black hair, for a mere second forgetting that he'd ever left. "She is beautiful," Willam could not help but smile at Lord Eddard who rode up beside him. "It reminds me of home, although I do miss the smell of the sea and watching the ships dock in the city outside my window. All the same my lord, I will die happier having seen this."

Eddard returned a smile in response to the kind words about his home. "Come," He said. "My household will be waiting."

Willam was not used to this attention as being the forth born son he'd always been an afterthought of the smallfolk back home, the people of Winterfell however had left their houses to witness the Stark calling himself a Prince as he rode them by, it seemed word had spread rather quickly. "Seems you have an admirer my prince." Edwyn gestured towards a little girl that came running up to Willams horse with a small blue flower in her hands, holding it up for him to take.

"How do I look?" Willam asked, having taken the flower and placed it above his ear.

"Like a smug prick," Cregan jested as he rode past Willam and Ed.

Willam rolled his eyes and turned his head to one of Lord Eddards men that rode beside him. "The bastards jealous of my dashing good looks." Edwyn followed closely as Willam and the Stark guardsman rode ahead to catch up with Cregan. They entered the courtyard to find Lord Eddard greeting his gathered family.

"Prince Willam," Eddard called him over. "Allow me to introduce my lady wife, Catelyn Stark."

Willam planted a kiss on her hand when she held it out. "Lady Stark, my thanks for taking a foolish adventurer into your house. I promise not to be of too much trouble."

One of Starks daughters giggled at that as Catelyn replied. "Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Willam."

Eddard went down the line and introduced the others. "This is my eldest, Robb. And his brothers Brandon and Rickon."

"A pleasure." Willam offered his hand to the young heir to Winterfell took it gladly, younger than Willam by a few years at his guess. The youngest one, Rickon, seemed content to remain hidden behind his eldest brother. Brandon on the other hand stood tall for his age and shook the princes hand as his brother did before him.

"My daughters," Eddard continued. "Sansa and Arya."

Willam kissed the hand of the eldest. "Lady Sansa," Willam took the blue flower from his head. "A beautiful flower for a beautiful women."

"Are you really a prince?" The youngest Stark girl crooked her head to the side to inspect the alleged prince.

"Arya!" Lady Stark shot her a stare.

"It's quite alright Lady Stark," Willam smiled.

"So?" The little wolf asked again. "Are you? Where's your crown?"

"As a Prince I wear no crown little wolf," Willam began to explain. "For years my line of House Stark has ruled as Princes of the Sunset Sea, swearing fealty to the old Kings of Winter in the hope that one day we could return the crown of Brandon the Shipwright to it's rightful owners. Sadly, that will never happen."

"Because we bowed to the dragons?"

Willam nodded. "Aye, my father will likely wear the shipwrights crown once my people learn the fate of the Kingdom of Winter."

"That's quite enough questions for today Arya," Lady Stark ceased her daughters line of questions that Willam thought would've likely continued for hours.

He smiled at the little wolf as she rolled her eyes. "This is my beloved brother," Willam began to introduce his own family. "Cregan Snow, the Bastard of Winterhold."

Cregan reluctantly bowed at the mention of his official title. "My Lady."

Willam continued. "And last but not least is Edwyn Ryder, my brother-in-arms."

Edwyn bowed much easier than Snow did. "My Lady."

"Welcome to Winterfell gentlemen." Catelyn smiled, avoiding Cregan as she did. "I have arranged rooms for you and your men Prince Willam. Robb," She turned to her eldest. "show the Prince and his men to their rooms, they must be tired from their journey."

"Yes mother." Robb replied.

Willam addressed his friends before following the Stark heir. "You two behave yourselves, we are guests here."

Cregan rolled his eyes. "Yes mother."

"How do like Winterfell?" Robb broke the silence as he lead Willam through the halls towards the quarters that had been prepared for him.

"The old paintings don't do it justice." Willam was focused on his surroundings, trying to map out the keep in his head.

"You have paintings of Winterfell?"

"King Brandon grew homesick," Willam turned his attention to Robb, thinking it rude not to face the heir of the castle he was a guest in. "In his later years ruling from Winterhold he ordered his knowledge written down, understanding the importance of history and not wishing his sons and grandsons to forget where they came from."

"He never tried to sail home?"

Willam sighed at that, he knew all too well the dangers of what sailing across the sunset meant. "Many tired," He began. "none returned to tell the tale and eventually the idea became one of madness. To cross the sunset meant death and none tried for a few hundred years before I took it upon myself to risk my own life to prove them all wrong, along with the lives of those that followed me."

"Your father let you leave?" Robb seemed shocked at that. "My father would never allow me to do something so dangerous."

"Your his heir," Cregan laughed at how naive the young Stark was. "Willam is a forth born son, all his brothers besides myself happily wed with little pups of their own. Willam and I however were always the black wolves of the family, expendable, not that he ever complained. We enjoy more freedom to the envy of our brothers, while they have the family legacy to uphold we've no such weight on our shoulders."

"I see." Robb stopped to open a door. "This is yours Prince Willam, mother wished to invite you to dinner later this evening."

"It would be an honor," Willam spoke as he entered the room, larger than he'd expected for a mere guest. Lords had often played host to his family but he tended to get the smallest room out of all his brothers, while being the youngest had it's perks it also had it's downsides. "You have a hearttree I assume?"

"Aye," Robb replied. "In the godswood off from the courtyard, cant miss it."

"My thanks," Willam shook his hand and entered the room, tossing his sword and it's scabbard onto the bed before moving over to inspect the bookshelf that held a sizable selection. He proceeded to read a seemingly old book before being called on for dinner. Dressed in clean cloths for the first time since he'd washed up on that beach, he followed the servant to the main hall where Lord Stark and his family were already seated.

"Prince Willam," Eddard was the first to speak as Willam stood in the doorway, he looked a lot more princely in clean cloths. "Sit, you must be hungry."

He happily took a seat beside Lord Eddard with Robb to his left and Eddards daughters on the opposite side of the table to him. "Thank you for having me again," Willam began before he dared to start eating. "I do hope it wasn't too much trouble, would've sent a raven ahead but alas one rarely _plans_ to capsize."

"It's no trouble Prince Willam," Catelyn replied with her usual courtesy. "We had been expecting guests even before my husband sent word of your arrival."

"Truly?" Willam took a sip of wine.

"You remember what I told you of the south during our ride from the Rills?" Eddard paused and Willam gave a nod in reply. "King Robert is riding North to Winterfell as we speak, we have been expecting him for almost a month now. We should arrive any day now."

Willam slowly drank his wine as he thought on the situation, before finally sharing his thoughts. "It seems Winterfell attracts royalty of all kinds, old and new."

"Quite," Eddard seemed oddly worried.

Willam guessed what he was thinking. "He doesn't know I exist."

"No," He replied simply, the concern obvious on his face.

"Well to be fair none knew of my existence until I washed up on your shores, my lord." Willam smiled to ease the tension. "King Robert could hardly blame you for not informing him, especially with him already on the road. Unless the good people of Westeros have trained birds to deliver messages to moving camps?"

The jest seemed to work, Willam often found making light of things had that effect. It worked for him anyway. "No, that's not my concern."

"This cannot be the first time Westeros has played host to a foreign envoy," Willam countered as he cut a piece of venison. "I am essentially a representative of my royal father and his people so I intend to act as such. You have my word, my Lord and Lady, there will be no trouble if I can help it."

That seemed to calm the lords worries. "I trust you to uphold the Stark name, Prince Willam." The rest of the dinner was rather uneventful as Willam excused himself after finishing his plate and went to discuss matters with Cregan and Edwyn in the godswood under the watched eyes of the Old Gods.

* * *

"This King," Edwyn began. "Is he likely take take our presence well?"

In truth Willam had his doubts. "Lord Eddard grew up with the man although he's not seen him for years, so only the gods know how a crown has changed the man he once knew. I will not bend to a man that is not my father, who is all for accounts our king even if he's not aware of it yet." The wind blew through the trees as Willam spoke and he took it as a sign that the gods agreed with him.

Edwyn did also, not that Edwyn has ever disagreed with him come to think of it. "Aye, this Iron Throne is of no concern to the islands, especially since it's not even held by those the Kings of Winter bent the knee to three hundred years ago. I am uncertain why these Starks obey now that the dragons you've spoke of are dead."

"To rise up against a unified South would been their downfall. You've not forgotten the rebellion back home Ed, picture it on a greater scale and ultimately more hopeless." Willam paused, realizing they were getting off track. "Regardless we did not come in slight of the gods to speak of matters that do not concern us, I asked you both here to ensure we're on the same page."

"No killing the royals during their visit?" Cregan stated the general idea.

"Yes," Willam eyed his brother. "No killing the royals. They are to be guests here, we don't want to start a war _and_ anger the gods in one foolish swing."

Edwyn nodded in understanding and Cregan did much the same, only with his normal attitude. Willam knew his brother wasn't stupid but shot him a cold stare all the same, this wasn't a joke, things would likely go well but he simply wasn't used to this much responsibility. Usually one of his brothers would deal with this kind of thing.

* * *

It was the following morning when the visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver, three hundred strong by Willam's count. Over their heads a dozer golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with what Willam had been told was the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Prince Willam scanned the head of the column for Robert Baratheon, a man that Lord Eddard had described as clean-shaven, clear-eyes, muscular with blue eyes and hair to match his own raven black. In the place as this description stood a _huge_ man with a full beard that processed to crush Lord Eddard in a hug. "Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours." The king looked his old friend over before his eyes darted to Willam, the only person besides his two companions that had not knelt upon his arrival. "Who the bloody hells is that?"

"Allow me to introduce Prince Willam Stark," Eddard motioned him over with a look at said 'lets get this over with'.

"Prince? Ned, what is this?"

"Your Grace," Willam bowed respectfully. "It is a long story, one best had over drinks I think. Suffice to say I am a distant relation to Lord Eddard here, who has been gracious enough to shelter me and my companions until I can return home." Willam paused, offering his hand. "Lord Eddard has spoken quite highly of you."

After a brief silence King Robert shook his hand, causing Eddard to sigh in relief. "I'll hear more over those drinks you offered lad!"

"It would be a pleasure, Your Grace." Willam bowed again with a smile.

A golden haired women walked up to them, staring at Willam like he'd just called her a whore. Lord Eddard knelt in the snow to kiss her ring, while the king embraced Lady Catelyn like a long-lost sister. Then the children were brought forward, introduced, and approved of by both sides similar to Willam's first meeting with the Stark family.

" _Prince_ Willam, was it?" The golden haired women stopped ignoring him, holding out her ring for him to kiss.

He did, seeing no reason to anger a queen today. "Queen Cersei I assume? Lord Eddard did not do your beauty justice, Your Grace."

She seemed to like the flattery, hiding the hint of a smile poorly. "I would understand how you claim to be a Prince."

"As would your lord husband, Your Grace." Willam smiled. "No doubt we'll talk more at the feast Lord Eddard has planned." The discussion was done at that as the queen turned her back on the alleged prince, despite her attempt to mask things it was obvious the idea of a Stark calling himself a Prince did not sit well with her.

After she left Willam moved over to Robb. "That went well."

"I think the king likes you Willam." He answered, forgoing the titles as Willam had requested of him earlier in the day.

"I think he likes drink," Willam jested, partly. "He seems a good enough man, although I am not certain about the queen."

"No?" Robb seemed surprised. "She seemed courteous enough."

Theon made himself apart of their conversation, nudging Robb. "Not to mention attractive."

Willam didn't like the queen, he'd decided upon that much simply by the manner the women held herself above everyone else. "Aye, sickening so." The king and Eddard returned from the crypts by the time Willam had finished talking to Robb and the others. They made their way to the great hall for the welcoming feast.


	4. Chapter 4: First Impressions

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, i do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so i ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but i have no real schedule. Please review with your thoughts as i'd love the feedback.

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Notes: To answer some of my reviews the Sunset Islands have all but written Willam and his companions off as dead and will not just 'show up and save the day' by sailing around the storms and beaties that plague the Sunset Sea as if that was possible they'd have done it before in the last thousands of years. No, the Starks wont be so lucky. On another matter while Brandon's Landing has 50,000 or so inhabitants, not all are fighting men, so that is not the amount of swords the Islands can raise.

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 **Chapter 4: F** **irst Impressions**

The Great Hall of Winterfell was heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread all on a far greater scale than the modest family dinner Willam had experienced before. The grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson; the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad as Willam sat on the raised platform beside Lord and Lady Stark along with the King and his wife.

It was the forth hour of the welcoming feast and Willam had spent most of his time filling in King Robert of the history of the Sunset Islands and how he came to be in Westeros, to his credit the man seemed more existed by the prospect of these new lands than concerned, the latter being expressed all over his wife's face. "To His Grace," Willam held up his wine. "Here's to future relations between our two peoples!" King Robert drank deep as he'd been doing throughout the feast, while Prince Willam scanned the room. Lord Starks children were seated below the raised platform, all but the bastard Jon Snow whom sat at the far rear of the hall drinking with Cregan.

"Enough stalling Will!" Robert shouted, using the nickname he'd been using for awhile now. "You mentioned a rebellion, I want details!"

Willam smiled at the kings drunkenness, the man had taken a greater interest up when talk of war had first come up. "I fear the my homelands rebellion cannot match that of your own counties struggles, Your Gra-"

"I told you to call me Robert lad," Robert pointed at him for a moment. "Now tell us, be out with it already!" Queen Cersei looked ready to claw Willam's eyes out and in that moment he thought he'd teach her a little lesson, this direwolf had claws of it's own and Willam wished to express that as indirectly as possible. He wasn't his brothers or father but he was no stranger to prideful lords or ladies that needed to be taken down by a head.

"As you wish Robert," Willam drink the remains of his wine before continuing to address the room, that had fallen silent to hear him speak. "I'll start at the beginning. The Islands have sworn to the Kingdom of Winter ever since our arrival, for those of you that don't know, we took the title of Prince rather than King because we never forgot where we came from. There was one, a certain Lord Domeric Frost, that felt it a pointless tradition to bend for absent kings."

"Yes, yes," Robert waved his hand, spilling wine on the table and cursing under his breath. "Get to the battles lad!"

"Lord Frost rose up in rebellion," Willam continued. "The fool underestimated the loyalty of his own people however and quickly found himself outnumbered. My grandfather along with the majority of the noble houses met him in open battle and say what you like about Lord Frost, the man had balls, he stood defiantly on that field under his banner and died fighting to the last man, the singers claim he turned his sword on himself out of shame before the end."

"And that was the end of it?" Robert asked, curious.

"No," Willam shook his head. "The beginning of the end perhaps, with Frosts army shattered all that remained was his castle. His eldest son was barely ten years of age but refused to open the gates and bend the knee, having beheaded any in his fathers household that spoke of surrender. The siege lasted a month before my grandfather ran out his patience. He sent the boy a final warning saying 'Open your gates, or this castle will become your tomb'. The boy was said to have laughed at the notion and spat at my grandfathers warning.

"Ha!" Robert spat, drinking from his newly filled cup.

"House Frosts castle stood along the shoreline and the Winter Fleet had long since had the castle surrounded by sea," Willam paused to shoot a knowing smile at the Queen. "The fleet unleashed death and come the dawn nothing but rubble remained of House Frost. A lesson was taught that day, one that none of the Frosts were alive to learn."

"And what lesson was that," Queen Cersei stared at him. "Prince Willam."

"That too much pride is unhealthy," Willam kept smiling before giving a shrug. "Or perhaps the lesson was as simple as not pissing off the Winter Fleet. In the end Winter comes for us all." The obvious threat hung in the air for a time, King Robert obliviously drinking himself into what would no doubt be an early grave.

Meanwhile on the other side of the hall. "Is this one of the direwolves I've heard so much of?" Cregan heard a man in black say, a Stark by the looks of him and clearly known to Jon Snow whom Cregan had to sitting next to at this feast. When Jon asked him why a Stark Prince was sitting with him Cregan had replied with 'us bastards need to stick together' before taking a seat, he was not asking for an invitation, he'd sit wherever the bloody hell he pleased.

"Yes," Jon said after the man had ruffled his hair. "This is Ghost."

One of the squires at their table interrupted the bawdy story he'd been telling to make room at the table for the new arrival. He straddled the bench with long legs and took the wine cup from Jons hand. "Summerwine," he said after a taste. "Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?"

Jon smiled and Cregan replied for him. "The lads enjoying himself."

"Cregan," Jon jumped to introductions. "This is my uncle, Benjen Stark."

He held up a cup to the man, before taking a swig. "A pleasure."

Benjen took a moment to eye the stranger. "You must be this Prince Willam I've heard about."

Cregan laughed. "No," He pointed in the direction of Willam. "My dear brother is sitting up there with your King."

"Don't you usually eat at the table with your brothers?"

"Most times," Jon answered his uncle. "But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them."

"I see," Benjen glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. "Is that why your seated here, Cregan?"

"My brother would hear none of it, said I was welcome to come sit with him if I wished and threatened to start a war on my behalf." Cregan shook is head, his brother was too cocky, while he had their fathers name he had no way to back up his words. Home likely thought them dead, and how could they come to the aid of a dead man? "I prefer the company here."

Benjen accepted that for what it was, even seemed to respect him for it although that could've been Cregans imagination. "My brother dose not seem very festive tonight."

"The queen is angry too," Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. "Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn't want him to go."

Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look that reminded Cregan of the look his own father gave him before shipping him off with Willam on his fools errand. "You don't miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall."

Jon swelled with pride at that. "Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I'm the better sword, and Hullem says I sit a horde as well as anyone in the castle."

"Notable achievements."

"Take me with you when you go back to the Wall," Jon said in a sudden rush. "Father would give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will."

"The wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon."

"I am almost a man grown," Jon protested. "I will turn fifteen on my next nameday, and Maseter Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children."

Cregan could agreed to that much, bastards had to grow up fast given their station in life. "That's true enough," Benjen said with a downward twist of his mouth. He took Jon's cup from the table, filling it fresh from a nearby pitcher, and drank down a long swallow."

"Daeron Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne," Jon said. Cregan had no idea who that was but the boy seemed to admire the name.

"A conquest that lasted a summer," his uncle pointed out. "Your Boy King lost ten thousand men tasking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn't a game." He took another sip of wine. "Also," he said, wiping his mouth, "Daeron Targaryen was only eighteen when he died. Or have you forgotten that part?"

"I forget nothing," Jon boasted. Cregan smiled at that, the wine was making the boy bolder. He tried to sit very straight, likely to make himself seem taller. "I want to serve in the Night's Watch, Uncle."

"Forgive me," Cregan put down his cup. "The Nights Watch is the sworn brotherhood that mans the Wall to the far north correct? Hard to beivle she still stands after all these sits even after the Kingdom of Winter fell to those dragons Lord Stark told us about."

"Aye," Benjen replied. "She still stands."

"I am ready to swear your oath Uncle."

"Your a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a women, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."

"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.

"You might lad, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son."

Jon burst out in anger. "I'm not your son!"

Benjen Stark stood up. "More's the pity." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Come back to me after you've fathered a few bastards of your own, and we'll see how you feel."

Jon seemed to tremble. "I will never father a bastard," he said carefully. _"Never!"_ He spat it out like venom. The table had fallen silent at his outburst, even Cregan remained silently staring at the boy. "I must be excused," he said with the last of his dignity. He whirled and bolted before they could see him cry.

* * *

The following day Willam found himself watching a young Brandon Stark sparring with Tommen Baratheon, both of the young lads padded as though they had belted on feather beds. They were muffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of Winterfells master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, a great stout keg of a man with white cheek wiskers. A dozer spectators, man and boy, were calling out encouragement, Robb's voice the loudest among them.

"You can do it Bran!" Robb shouted while Willam stood beside Edwyn, watching with amusement as young Brandon delivered a good strong whack at Prince Tommen who soon found himself rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtule on it's back.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the young prince a hand and yanked him to his feet. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor." He looked around. "Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?"

Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, moved forward eagerly. "Gladly."

Joffrey moved out of his corner in response to Rodrik's summons. His hair shone like gold. He looked bored. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik."

Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You are children," he said derisively. Willam was included to agree.

"Robb may be a child," Joffrey said. "I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."

Willam took that as a challenge, moving to draw steel before Robb put a hand on his shoulder as if to say 'I can handle this'. "You took more swats than you gave, Joff," Robb said. "Are you afraid?"

Prince Joffrey looked at him. "Oh, terrified," he said. "You're so much older." Some of the Lannister men laughed.

Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. "What are you suggesting?" he asked the young prince.

"Live steel."

"Done," Robb shot back. "You'll be sorry!"

The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb's shoulder to quiet him. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."

Joffrey said nothing as a large man with black hair and burn scars on his face pushed forward in front of the prince. "This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"

"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it."

"Are you training women here?" the burned man wanted to know.

"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said pointedly. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age."

The burned man looked at Robb. "How old are you, boy?"

"I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it wasn't with a blunt sword."

Robb bristled. His pride was wounded as he turned to Rodrik. "Let me do it. I can beat him."

"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik said.

Joffrey shrugged. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark. If you're not too old." There was laughter from the Lannister men. Robb's curses rang through the yard as Theon Greyjoy seized his arm to keep him away from the prince. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers in dismay.

Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. "Come, Tommen," he said. "The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics." That brought more laughter from the Lannisters, and more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik's face was beet-red with fury as Theon kept Robb in his iron grip. Willam had reached the end of his limited patience, for somebody to speak to a Stark in such a way was treason where he came from, it had to be answered.

"Joffrey Baratheon!" Willam shouted, bringing silence to the Lannister laughter as he pointed his blade at the young boy whom had just now seemingly browned himself at the wolves furious cry. "Where I come from you would already be dead for insulting a Stark, do so again in my presence and I will teach you to respect your betters."

"Y- You dare!" Joffrey stuttered, pointing at Willam whom now stood with his blade hovering at his side.

"Walk away," Willam stared at the boy with cold eyes. Edwyn and Cregan had since moved beside their prince, swords at the ready, along with the Stark men that had flocked to his side of the yard and now stood behind him like a small army. The Lannisters had done much the same, although they were outnumbered.

Joffrey turned scarlet red as he turned around and stormed from the courtyard to the music of all the Stark men in the yard laughing and cheering "Prince Willam" and "Stark". It was only after the little shit left that Willam noticed all the Stark men had flocked behind with, many with their blades drawn. "You shouldn't have done that," Cregan shook his head. "He'll go to his father."

"Let him," Willam smiled at his brother.

"Cregan is right." Edwyn seemed to agree, shooting a worried look as the crimson of the Lannisters vanished from the yard.

"He _is_ royalty," Robb sighed.

"As am I." Willam growled. "Care to spar with a _real_ prince, Robb?"

Robb smiled, shaking his head slightly. "Aye."

Willam was good with a sword although far from the most skilled of his brothers, defeated the boy Joffrey would've been beyond an easy task, defeating Robb would require he pay attention. "You rely on brute strength," Willam commented on Robb's style. "I prefer speed myself." Willam kept parrying Robb's blows and giving him the same tips his own brothers had once given him. Until a knight with a white cloak entered the yard.

"Willam Stark." The knight spoke, gaining Willam's attention.

He took a step closer and brought his sword up, warped it around Robb's then slid down the outside of his blade, jerking his own sword inward causing Robb's sword to fly out of his hand. "Feel free to use that one, courtesy of my brother." Willam left Robb is a daze, shocked and slightly impressed by the turn of events. "You called?" Willam addressed the knight.

"His Grace demands your presence." The knight spoke with grin. He was a Lannister, the golden hair was a dead giveaway.

"Lead the way, Ser-"

"Jaime," He replied. "Who taught you how to fight? You were playing with the Stark boy back there, I could tell."

"You give me too much credit, my brothers were always the swordsmen in the family."

"You've many brothers?" The knight asked, digging for information.

Willam was happy to share, within reason. "I'm the forth born, fifth if you count Cregan."

"The grumpy looking one?"

He laughed at that. "Aye, that's the one."

It was a short walk to the great hall where King Robert had taken his seat. "Your Grace," Jaime bowed to his king. "Willam Stark, as you requested."

Jaime left as the King waved him off, leaving Willam alone standing before King Robert of the House Baratheon, and his furious looking Queen. "Willam," The king nodded at his drinking buddy from the previous night. "My son tells me you threatened his life, what's all this about?"

"Your boy insulted the Heir to Winterfell," Willam began, this was clearly news to Robert. "Your son challenge him to a spar with live steel, Ser Rodrik forbade live steel and offered up tourney blades, only for the young prince to back down from his own challenge. He processed to leave the yard, but not before insulting House Stark once more."

"Are you going to sit there and listen to these lies?" Cersei demanded of her husband.

"My son claimed you called him a craven." Robert was angry at the suggestion, although it seemed a hollow anger.

"I never called the boy such," Willam turned his gaze to the queen. "Although, what do _you_ call someone that challenges another to a fight only to flee at the first chance? Where I come from Your Grace, such an action would indeed be considered cowardly. Where I come from Your Grace, guests also know better than to insult their hosts."

"He insults our son with every breath!" Cersei fumed, pointing an accusing finger.

"He speaks his mind!" Robert bellowed, his voice like a thunder clap. "Leave us women, I will speak to him alone."

Cersei left, an act that Willam was grateful for as the women vexed him to no end. "I apologies for causing family strife, Your Grace. I however could not take an insult to my blood without answering it in kind. Prince Joffrey overstepped, he's welcome to challenge me to a duel on the matter if he wishes. _I'll_ not flee."

Robert laughed at the notion. "You'd kill the boy and my wife would call for your head, no, there will be no duel."

"So," Willam paused. "What now?"

"I'll be leaving tomorrow after a hunt." Robert sighed, he didn't seem to eager to return to the capital. "I had hoped to invite you with me to see the capital but-"

"The queen wouldn't have it."

"No," Robert agreed. "She'd likely have you killed."

"Lord Eddard will be riding with you I assume?" Willam had since picked up a pitcher of wine and poured himself and the king a glass.

"Aye," Robert drank deeply.

"To your journey south then," Willam refilled the kings glass and held his own up for a toast.

Robert drank the wine, slamming it down on the table. "What will you do then? Planning on heading for home?"

Willam thought on it for a moment, deciding quickly. "I heard Lord Tyrion speak of traveling to the Wall. I've heard only tales of the place, would like to see if before I attempt to travel home and the dwarf seems a good traveling companion. Afterwards we'll see if I can get home at all."

"You've doubts?"

"I've a theory, if I was to sail east long enough." Willam drank his wine as he thought on the matter, it was a risk, but sailing West was just as big a risk. "At least if I sail east I'll know where I am going, while sailing west would rely entirely on an amount of luck that I don't think the gods would see fit to grant me a second time."

"If you should choose to stay," Robert suggested. "I'm certain Ned would grant you some land in this barren wasteland of his."

"I'll drink to that." Willam smiled, pouring more wine for him and the king.

* * *

Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell, a wolf howled. The sound hung heavy over the castle like a flag of mourning. "He'll pull through my lady," Willam spoke to a distraught Catelyn Stark whom was sat beside her son. "He may never walk again, but a man can live a full life without the use of his leg."

"He always wanted to be a knight."

"Life is cruel," Willam sighed. "He'll not be a knight but he can grow to be a great lord some day. There is an ancestor of mine, by the name of Theon the Boneless, he was born with bones in his legs so brittle that the act of walking was practically impossible. And yet he is remembered as one of the greatest Princes the Islands ever had, not for his sword arm, but for his brain. The man was a genius and ruled his people well."

Catelyn smiled as she stroked Brandons hair, the smile died when he entered the room. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I came to see Bran," Jon said. "To say good-bye."

"You've said it. Now go away."

Jon looked at Willam for a moment before taking a nervous step into the room. "Please," he said.

Something cold moved in her eyes. "I told you to leave," she said. "We don't want you here."

"He's my brother," Jon said.

"Shall I call the guards?"

"Call them," Jon said, defiant. "You cant stop me from seeing him." He crossed the room, keeping the bed between them, and looked down on Bran where he lay. Catelyn was holding onto his hands. It looked like a claw. The flesh had all but gone from the poor boy, having been fed on honey and water since he wouldn't keep down anything else. "Bran," He said, "I'm sorry I didn't come before. I was afraid." Tears began to roll down Jons cheeks. "Don't die, Bran. Please. We're all waiting for you to wake up. Me and Robb and the girls, everyone..."

Lady Stark was watching him in silence and outside the window, the direwolf howled again. The wolf that Bran had not had time to name. "We need to go now lad." Willam broke the silence, walking to the door after offering Catelyn his final condolences. "Bran will be fine, he's a Stark."

"I have to go now," Jon said to his brother. "Uncle Benjen is waiting. I'm to go north to the Wall. We have to leave today, before the snows come." Jon brushed away his tears, leaned over, and kissed his brother lightly on the forehead.

"I wanted him to stay here with me," Lady Stark said softly. Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at him. "I prayed for it," she said dully. "He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of the gods that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered."

"It wasn't your fault," Jon managed after an awkward silence.

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. "I need none of your absolution, bastard."

Jon lowered his eyes. Catelyn was cradling one of Bran's hands. He took the other, squeezed it. Fingers like bones of birds. "Good-bye." He said.

He was at the when she called out to him. "Jon," she said.

"Yes?" He turned to meet her stare.

"It should have been you," she told him. Then she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her hole body shaking with the sobs.

"That was unkind." Willam stated coldly to her before leaving the room, giving her no time to reply.

It was a long walk down to the yard. Outside, everything was noise and confusion. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow had begun to fall, and everyone was in an uproar to be off. "Uncle Benjen is looking for you two," Robb came walking up to them with his direwolf at his side. "He wanted to be gone an hour ago."

"I know," Jon said. "Leaving is harder than I thought."

"For me too," Rodd said. He had snow in his hair, melting from the heat of his body.

Willam laughed. "Try sailing away into unknown seas, everyone telling you that your going to die."

They all shared a laugh at that before Robb's face turned serious. "Did you see him?"

"He's not going to die," Willam said.

"You Starks are hard to kill," Jon agreed. His voice was flat and tired. The visit to Bran had taken all the strength from him.

Robb seemed to know something was wrong. "My mother..."

"She was... very kind," Jon told him.

Robb seemed to buy it. "Good." He smiled. "The next time I see you, you'll be all in black."

Jon smiled back. "It always was my color. How long do you think it will be?"

"Soon enough," Robb promised. He pulled Jon to him and embraced him fiercely. "Farewell, Snow."

Jon hugged him back. "And you, Stark. Take care of Bran."

"I will." They broke apart and looked at each other awkwardly. "Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if I saw you." Robb finally said.

"I have one more farewell to make," Jon told him.

"Then I haven't seen you," Robb replied. Jon left him standing in the snow alone, surrounded by wagons and wolves and horses. Willam left to seek out Benjen in the stables and saddle himself a horse for the road to the Wall. He looked forward to it, going to the fabled Wall was just another thing he never thought he'd get to do in his lifetime.

"Stark," Willam addressed Benjen when he found him, securing the saddle on his horse.

"Stark," Benjen replied in kind.

"Jon will be with us shortly," Willam continued to walk forward, picking a fine black destrier from the stable.

"He's a good lad."

"He'll do well on the Wall no doubt." Willam smiled for a moment as he thought how strange it all was. Here he was in Winterfell, about to ride to the Wall.

"Planning on joining yourself?" Benjen asked rather seriously, the thought was frankly hilarious to Willam the Wandering Wolf.

"Gods no," He burst out laughing and quickly realized he was being rude. "My apologies Benjen I meant no offence, but there is far too much of the world I have yet to see and I've no plans to tie myself down to a single castle. Not for many years yet if I have anything to say about it."

"I understand." Is all the black brother said as he mounted up and left the stables ahead of Willam. The ride to the Wall would be a long one and Willam prayed that Tyrion Lannister would be a more entertaining companion that of Benjen Stark, not that he had anything against the man but he reminded him too much of one of his brothers.


	5. Chapter 5: Watcher on the Wall

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, i do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so i ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but i have no real schedule. Please review with your thoughts as i'd love the feedback.

* * *

Notes: Progress on the story will be slower due to Fallout 4 taking up a lot of my time. I'll still update whenever I find the time but as always promise nothing.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Watcher on the Wall**

The North seemed to go on forever, a far cry from home where the longest one could ride without sighting the shore was mere hours. They had left Winterfell on the same day as the king, amidst all the commotion of the royal departure, riding out to the sound of men shouting and horses snorting, to the rattle of wagons and groaning of the queen's huge wheelhouse, as the light snow flurried about them. The kings banners had turned south while Willam turned North with Benjen Stark and company. Three days ride from Winterfell and the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely. With mountains a wall to the west the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than the forests back home, not to mention larger. "The wolfswood," Benjen Stark named it, and indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. There were thirteen in their party, counting Jon Snows wolf. Lord Tyrion traveled with two of his own men. Benjen Stark had only his nephew and Lord Stark had sent two honor guards to escort Willam but at the edge of the wolfswood they stayed a night behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast and there joined up with another of the black brothers, one Yoren. Nine men, three boys counting the two recruits that arrived with Yoren, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given over to Benjen by Maester Luwin. Willam thought they made for a curious fellowship.

"I warn you, Lannister, you'll find no Inns at the Wall," Benjen said, looking down at the dwarf.

"No doubt you'll find some place to put me," Tyrion had replied. "As you might have noticed, I'm small."

"By the gods he's right, how _could_ I have missed it?" Willam feigned shock, gaining a few laughs from their party.

"You will not like the ride, I promise you that." Benjen said curtly, ignoring Willam's jest.

By the end of the first week, it was clear that Tyrion was indeed not enjoying the ride, although to his credit not once did he give Benjen the satisfaction of complaining. "Why do you read so much?" Willam looked up at the sound of the voice as he'd been seated next to the dwarf for some time, having borrowed one of his books.

Tyrion answered the boy. "Look at me and tell me what you see."

Jon looked at him suspiciously, looking to Willam for some correction and finding none. "Is this some kind of trick? I see you. Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion sighed. "You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?"

"Fourteen," Jon said.

"Fourteen, and you're taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep me fallling from my horse. A saddle of my own design, you may be interested to know. It was either that or ride a pony. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsmen. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slavers grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock." Tyrion paused as if thinking on if he'd bother saying more. "My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind... and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep it's edge." Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. "That's why I read so much, Jon Snow."

Jon absorbed that in silence. "Willam reads a lot too."

Tyrion looked to his side. "That he dose."

Willam shrugged. "Why have one weapon sharp when you can have two?"

"What are you reading about?" Jon asked.

"Dragons," Tyrion told him.

"What good is that? There are no more dragons," Jon said with the easy certainty of youth.

"History is important, Jon." Willam began as he closed his book. "Back home we are taught that knowledge of the world is as important as knowing how to swing a sword. History teaches us the wisdom of people long dead, and warns us about their many mistakes. The dragons may be dead but I can tell you the history of the Targaryens was one of the first times I read from Winterfells library."

"Why dragons?"

"They brought the Kings of Winter to their knees," Willam said with a touch of sorrow.

"I used to dream of having a dragon of my own."

"You did?" Jon asked suspiciously. Perhaps he thought Tyrion was making fun of him.

"Oh, yes." Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he's seated on a dragon's back." Tyrion pushed his bearskin aside and climbed to his feet. "I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare into the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister." Jon was staring at him, a look equal parts horror and fascination. Tyrion guffawed. "Don't look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. You've dreamt the same kind of dreams."

"No," Jon said, horrified. "I wouldn't..."

"No? Never?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Well, no doubt the Starks have been terribly good to you. I'm certain Lady Stark treats you as if you were one of her own. And your brother Robb, he's always been kind, and why not? He gets Winterfell and you get the Wall. And your father-"

"Enough," Willam interrupted. "That is quite enough Lord Tyrion." Willam was one of the last to retire that night, as tended to happen, he paused and looked over his shoulder as he lifted up the flap to his tent. Jon Snow stood near the fire, his face still and hard, looking deep into the flames. Willam smiled sadly and went to bed.

* * *

The courtyard rang to the song of swords. Edwyn and Cregan stood watching Jon Snow spar with some other watch recruits, he went under one swing and countered with a sweeping blow that crunched against the back of the other boy's leg and sent him staggering. Another lads uppercut was answered by an overhand that dented his helm. When he tired a side swing, Jon swept aside his blade and slammed a mailed forearm into his chest, causing his opponent to lose his footing and fall down hard in the snow. Jon knocked his sword from his fingers with a slash to his wrist that brought a cry of pain.

"Enough" Ser Alliser Thorne had a voice with an edge of valyrian steel.

The boy on his arse cradled his hand. "The bastard broke my wrist!"

"The bastard hamstrung you, opened your empty skull, and cut off your hand. Or would have, if these blades had an edge. It's fortunate for you that the Watch needs stableboys as well as rangers." Ser Alliser gestured at the two other recruits besides Jon. "Get the Aurochs on his feet, he has funeral arrangements to make."

Jon took off his helm as the other boys were pulling their friend to his feet. He leaned on his sword, drew a deep breath, and allowed himself a moment to savor his victory.

"That is a longsword, not an old man's cane," Ser Alliser said sharply. "Are your legs hurting, Lord Snow?"

"No," he replied.

Thorne strode towards him, crisp black leathers whispering faintly as he moved. He was a man of some fifty years by Cregan's guess, spare and hard, with grey in his black hair and eyes like ships of onyx. "The truth now," he commanded of Jon.

"I'm tired," Jon admitted.

"What you are is weak."

"I won."

"No. The Aurochs lost."

One of the others boys sniggered and Cregan shook his head at their show, the Watch had been one very large disappointment thus far and showed no signs of improvement. "That will be all," Thorne told him. "I can only stomach so much ineptitude in any one day. If the Others ever come for us, I pray they have archers, because you lot are fit for nothing more than arrow fodder." Jon followed the other recruits back to the armory while Cregan and Edwyn found themselves approached by Thorne of all people.

"Harsh methods," Edwyn said as he watched the bruised recruits leave the courtyard.

"Walls a harsh place," Ser Alliser countered with a grunt. "I'm to make men out of these boys if they are to last more than a week."

"I meant it with the utmost respect Ser." Edwyn meant it too, much like the Wall, the Islands back home were harsh at the best of times.

"Aye," Cregan agreed in so many words, keeping his thoughts to himself for now.

They soon found themselves in the main hall where the brothers of Castle Black had gathered for food and drink, neither being plentiful or practically good. Stale bread and stiff ale for the most part. Cregan found himself across the table from the Lord Commander who was asking him a number of questions. "I'm curious," The old bear said. "How is it that the shipwright colonized the Islands? You claim your capital alone holds fifty thousand souls, but where did they come from?"

Willam answered, having returned from atop the Wall. "Well, when a man and a woman love each other _very_ much-"

That had a few laughs from the table, although the Lord Commander merely shook his head. "The shipwright brought with him around a thousand fighting men," Cregan rolled his eyes at his brothers jest and answered the question seriously. "Along with those men came their families, lowborn and high, any citizen of the North willing to risk it all for the promise of opportunity in a new land. In the years that followed Brandon's Landing become the trade center of the islands, home to more than just the descendants of those that sailed with the shipwright."

"Such a risk seems foolish." One of the black brothers at the table spoke, before returning to his drink.

"The North is large, many of the common folk having nothing to their name."

"And the nobles?" The old bear asked.

"Youngest sons of noble houses, out to seek their fortune and make a life for themselves." Cregan paused to take a swing of his drink. "Frost, Ryder, Fisher, Stark and Flint to name a few. Those that made the crossing were given leave by the shipwright to spread across the archipelago and claim what they found under the condition that they found it first and shed no blood in the doing."

"There are Mormont's too," Willam added. "I thought you'd like to know that Lord Commander."

"Truly?" He asked, eyebrow raised. Willam was used to the reaction by now, one of curiosity mixed with mistrust.

"Aye," Willam assured the bear. "House Mormont of Long Island. Named after your families sword if I am not mistaken, the island is modest but the Mormonts have pride of place in the fleet. Bloody fine sailors." The commander seemed content with the knowledge, proud even.

"And the others in the city?" Another asked.

"The foreigners?" Cregan asked, gaining a nod in return. "The first people we made contact with had a small trade outpost on the islands, apart of a vast empire to the far south-east. It's largely thanks to them that we grew so quickly, trade with the distant realm brought wealth, bodies and most importantly security in the knowledge that we'd found a powerful friend. Their outpost stands today as a large harbor with House Fisher's castle watching over it."

Mormont become more curious as Cregan went on. "How many swords can your people raise? If it's not too much to ask..."

He hesitated for a second, looking to Willam who shot him to cautious look. "Why do you ask?"

The old bear was quick to defend the question. "I meant nothing by it, simply curious. The Watch could use more men."

Cregan almost laughed at the notion. "I doubt anyone could submit themselves to going celibate to defend a Wall on the other side of the world."

"I was thinking more of an agreement, should travel between our two realms become... more freely available."

"You want our criminals?" Cregan actually laughed this time, or at least what passed as laughter with him.

"The Wall needs every man it can get."

"I'm uncertain if even I can return yet alone if others could follow us here," He paused to think.

"I plan to sail East." Willam blurted out, snapping his brother out of his thought.

"East?" The old bear asked, confused.

"Aye," Willam nodded. "An old tale claims if one sails east long enough he'll reach the west, a fair bit safer than risking death by going directly west through the storms. Should I ever return home I have no doubt others will wish to retrace my footprints, so to speak, they will be curious. I can promise to talk your offer to my father but cannot do more than that."

"That is all I ask." The old bear said, accepting the empty promise for what it was.

"I have a question for you," Willam asked.

"We've asked more than our share of you, ask away Prince Willam."

"Why did the Kings of Winter never annex the Wall?" Willam's naturally relaxed expression turned serious, his question taking the brothers of the watch off guard. "Winterhold has it's own standing army, well trained, paid and housed. I hope you take no offence when I say this but the Wall seems in a sorry state with it's restrictions and self governance. I'd give you a standing force of a thousand men and hire additional swords from the locals when the need arises."

The table was silent for awhile as the crows thought on all that, until Alliser answered for them. "The Watch takes no part in the goings on of the realms, if we were to be under any single lordling we'd be subject to their conflicts. It would be the end of us."

"Forgive me, I grew up on tales of the Watch being far stronger than it stands now." Willam sighed, thinking it best to keep his suggestions to himself.

"Times are hard," The old bear agreed. It was no secret that the Night's Watch was at an all time low, forgotten by most of Westeros.

"The Wall will endure," Another spoke. "It always has."

 _"There is a first time for everything and most of you can barely swing a sword, you rely almost entirely on Winterfell's banners."_ Willam thought, keeping his vast disappointment to himself. He remained at the table for a time, drinking and talking of home, before leaving the hall to prepare the horses for the ride back south.

* * *

"Prince Willam." Jon Snow addressed Willam has he stood beside his horse, Cregan and Edwyn were waiting on him.

"Snow," He said. "Come to wish me farewell?"

"Your leaving." The boy stated the obvious to which Willam gave a nod. "Take me with you."

"Sick of the Wall already?" Cregan asked from atop his horse.

"No one told me the Night's Watch would be like this; no one except Lord Tyrion."

"Aye," Willam smiled sadly. "The watch _is_ in a sorry state. That doesn't mean you couldn't make it better lad, they need men that know how to swing a sword."

"Ser Alliser doesn't seem to think so," Jon spat with more anger than he'd intended. "I'm sorry... I-"

Willam waved off the apology. "Thorne is a puppy compared to the instructors I had growing up. If he dislikes you, it's because your a bully."

"A _bully_?" Jon almost choked on the word. "They hate me because I'm better than them!"

"You humiliated those lads in the yard, doubtless they have never even held a sword before Thorne handed them one." Willam paused to judge his reactions, he'd calmed somewhat and seemed to be taking the words to heart. "They are likely afraid of you. Cregan told me of your fight in the yard, it's not training with you. Put a good edge on your sword, and they'd be dead meat; you know it, I know it, they know it. You leave them nothing. You shame them. Tell me, dose that make you proud?"

Jon hesitated. "They're all older than me," he said defensively.

"Older and bigger and stronger, that's the truth. But none had the great Ser Rodrik Cassel to teach them. Their fathers were farmers and wagonmen and poachers, smiths and miners and oars on a trading galley, none ever being rich enough to buy a sword." Willam's look was grim. "So how do you like the taste of your great victories now, Lord Snow?"

"Don't call me that!" Jon said sharply.

Willam looked to Cregan, who shook his head before speaking in a rather serious tone. "Let people see that their words can hurt you lad, and you'll never be free of the mockery. If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own and wear it like armor. Then they cant hurt you with it anymore."

"Your welcome to come with us Jon Snow, but you've a lot to learn." Willam mounted his horse and gestured Jon to his own that was still in the stable. A prince, two bastards and two Stark guardsmen left the wall, leaving a small Tyrion Lannister behind to enjoy the Watch's hospitality some more. It would be a long ride back to Winterfell.


	6. Chapter 6: Homesick

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, i do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so i ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but i have no real schedule. Please review with your thoughts as i'd love the feedback.

* * *

Notes: Willam stops at Winterfell before deciding what to do next. I go a little all-out with some 'dreaming' too, the Starks of the Sunset Sea have a very strong connection to the Old Gods and you may ask yourself how when they are so far from the North? The Islands are unspoiled by the Andals and there is story to build around the Mossovy peoples and their... lets say... gifts. I think Cregan mentioned how they had taught/shared much. I'll not spoil too much in that regard.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: H** **omesick**

The road back to Winterfell was uneventful short of Cregan schooling the younger bastard in swordplay, he was a natural, Willam thought it only a matter of time before Jon was Cregan's equal. They'd been back at Winterfell for only a few days before Tyrion Lannister arrived. Robb was seated in his fathers high seat, wearing ringmail and boiled leather and the stern face that he'd adopted since becoming Lord in his fathers absence. Willam stood behind him, beside Theon Greyjoy and Hallis Mollen. A dozen guardsmen lined the grey stone walls beneath tall narrow windows. In the center of the room the dwarf stood with his servants, and four brothers of the Night's Watch.

"Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome here at Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay," Robb said in his most lordly voice. His sword was across his knees, the steel bare for all the world to see. It was an ill thing to greet a guest with an unsheathed sword and not something that would go unnoticed by Tyrion.

"Any man of the Night's Watch," Tyrion repeated, "but not me, do I take your meaning boy."

Robb stood and pointed at the little man with his sword. "I am the lord here while my mother and father are away, Lannister. I am not your boy."

"If you are a lord, you might learn a lord's courtesy," Tyrion replied, ignoring the sword point in his face. "Your bastard brother has all your father's graces, it would seem."

Willam stepped forward and placed a hand on the young lords shoulder before speaking calmly. "I vouch for Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion gave a nod in thanks before turning to face the crippled Bran. "So it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it. You Starks are hard to kill."

"You Lannisters had best remember that," Robb said, lowering his sword. "Hodor, bring my brother here."

"Hodor," Hodor said, and he trotted forward smiling and set Bran in the high seat of the Starks, where the Lords of Winterfell had sat since the days when they called themselves Kings in the North. The seat was cold stone; the carved heads of direwolves snarled on the ends of it's massive arms. Bran clasped them as he sat, his legs dangling.

Robb placed a hand on his shoulder. "You said you have business with Bran. Well, here he is, Lannister."

"I am told you were quite the climber, Bran," Tyrion said. "Tell me, how is it you happened to fall that day?"

"I _never_." Bran insisted.

"The child dose not remember anything of the fall, or the climb that came before it," said Maester Luwin gently.

"Curious," Said Tyrion. Willam had also found that convenient, any doubts he had about the dwarfs involvement were minimal at best.

"My brother is not here to answer questions, Lannister," Robb said curtly. "Do your business and be on your way."

"I have a gift for you," Tyrion said to Bran. "Prince Willam mentioned you like to ride?"

Maester Luwin came forward. "My lord, the child has lost the use of his legs. He cannot sit a horse."

"Nonsense," Willam spat.

Tyrion continued. "With the right horse and the right saddle, even a cripple can ride."

"I am _not_ a cripple!"

"Then I am not a dwarf," Tyrion said with a twist of his mouth. "My father will rejoice to hear it." Greyjoy laughed.

"What sort of horse and saddle are you suggesting?" Maester Luwin asked.

"A smart horse," Willam answered. "Bran cannot use his legs to command the animal, so you must shape the horse to the rider, teach it to respond to the reins, to the voice. I would begin with an unbroken yearling, with no old training to be unlearned. Back on the Islands we once had a king named Theon the Boneless, he rode with the best of them when he wished." He shrugged. "I may have inquired as to the design of Tyrions own saddle."

Tyrion drew a rolled paper from his belt. "Give this to your saddler. He will provide the rest."

The Maester took the paper from his hands, curious as a small grey squirrel. He unrolled it, studied it. "I see. You draw nicely, my lord. Yes, this ought to work. I should have thought of this myself."

"It came easier to me, Maester. It is not terribly unlike my own saddles."

"Will I truly be able to ride?" Bran looked up at Willam, clearly wanting to believe it.

"You will," Willam smiled. "And on horseback you will be as tall as any of them."

Robb seemed puzzled. "Is this some trap, Lannister? What's Bran to you? Why should you want to help him?"

"Prince Willam suggested it. And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things." Tyrion placed a hand over his heart and grinned.

The door to the yard flew open. Sunlight came streaming across the hall as Rickon burst in, breathless. The direwolves were with him. The boy stopped by the door, wide-eyed, but the wolves came on. Their eyes found Lannister, or peraphs they caught hisscent. Summer began to growl first. Grey Wind picked it up. They padded towards the little man, one from the right and one from the left."

"The wolves do not like your smell, Lannister." Theon Greyjoy commented.

"Perhaps it is time I took my leave," Tyrion said. He took a step backwards... and Shaggydog came out of the shadows behind him, snarling. Lannister recoiled, and Summer lunged at him from the side. He reeled away, unsteady on his feet, and Grey Wind snapped at his arm, teeth ripped at his sleeve and tearing loose a scrap of cloth.

As if by magic the direwolves went docile, eyes tinted a dark green as they walked up to the high seat, silent as the grave as they sat at the foot of the chair. Willam's eyes met with a startled Tyrion's. "How interesting." The dwarf stared at Willam, who gave a nod in reply, seemingly tired for some reason.

"Are you well, my lord?" Asked one of Tyrions men, his sword in hand. He glanced nervously at the direwolves as he spoke. They were still seated, like statues at the base of the high seat, their eyes fixed on the dwarf. They seemed almost annoyed by something.

"My sleeve is torn and my breeches are unaccountably damp, but nothing was harmed save my dignity."

Robb looked shaken by the events. "The wolves... I don't know why they did that..."

"No doubt they mistook me for dinner." Lannister bowed stiffly.

"A moment, my lord," Maester Luwin said. He moved to Robb and they huddled close together, whispering.

Robb finally sheathed his sword. "I... I may have been hasty with you," he said. "You've done Bran a kindness, and, well..." Robb composed himself with effort. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours if you wish it Lannister."

"Spare me your false courtesies, boy. You do not love me and you do not want me here. I saw an inn outside your walls, in the winter town. I'll find a bed there, and both of us will sleep easier. For a few coppers I may even find a comely wench to warm the sheets for me." He spoke to one of the black brothers, one of the men from their journey to the Wall, a recruiter by Willams memory. "Yoren, we go south at daybreak. You will find me on the road, no doubt." With that he made his exit, struggling across the hall on his short legs, past Rickon and out the door. His men followed.

Later that day Willam feasted with Robb and the Night's Watch men. The lord's seat was left empty, Robb sat to the right of it with Bran across from him and Willam sat beside him. They ate suckling pig, pigeon pie and turnips soaking in butter, and afterwards the cook had promised honeycombs. It was a great step up from the food served at Castle Black. Yoren was senior among the black brothers so the steward had him seated between Willam and the Jon, he ripped at the meat with his teeth, cracked the ribs to suck out the marrow from the bones, and shrugged at the mention of Jon Snow. "Ser Alliser's Bane," he grunted, and two of his brothers shared a laugh. "Not everyone is cut out for the wall, no offence lad."

Jon grunted in response, keeping his temper. Robb proceeded to ask for news about his uncle Benjen, casuing the black brothers to grow ominously quiet. "What is it?" Bran asked.

Yoren wiped his fingers on his vest. "There's hard news, m'lords, and a cruel way to pay you for your meat and mead, but the man as asks the question must bear the anser. Stark's gone."

One of the other men said. "The Old Bear sent him out to look for Waymar Royce, and he's late returning, my lord."

"Too long," Yoren said. "Most like he's dead."

"My uncle is not dead," Robb said loudly, anger in his tones. He rose from the bench and laid his hands on the hilt of his sword. "Do you hear me? _My uncle is not dead!_ " His voice rang against the stone walls, and Bran seemed suddenly afraid. Cregan sighed from the end of the table and Willam rolled his eyes.

Yoren looked up at Robb, unimpressed. "Whatever you say, m'lord," he said. He sucked at a peice of meat between his teeth.

The youngest of the black brothers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "There's not a man on the Wall knows the haunted forest better than Benjen Stark. He'll find his way back."

"Well," said Yoren. "maybe he will and maybe he won't. Good men have gone into those woods before, and never came out."

"The children will help him," Bran blurted, "the children of the forest!"

Theon Greyjoy sniggered, and Maester Luwin said, "Bran, the children of the forest have been dead and gone for thousands of years. All that is left of them are the faces in the trees." Willam kept his neutral expression, washing down his food with a few gulps of wine.

"Down here, might be that's true, Maester," Yoren said, "but up past the Wall, who's to say? Up there, a man can't always tell what's alive and what's dead."

 _"woh nag gram."_ Willam muttered, to the attention of nobody at the table besides his brother. That night, after the plates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself while Cregan and Willam took their own leave. Cregan retired to his own chambers and Willam found himself wondering into the godswood.

* * *

Willam knelt at a heart tree located by a small pristine lake. "gram ska gerrik," he muttered under his breath in a foreign tongue. "magnar ska." Wind blew in reply to the prayer as he moved a small blade across his palm, placing his cut hand onto the trunk of the weirwood and repeating the words under his breath. Another gust of wind gently brushed through Willam's hair, causing him to turn sharply at his audience. "It is not polite to snoop, Ed."

"Forgive me my prince," Edwyn stepped out from behind his tree. "I did not wish to interrupt."

Willam's face went dark as he turned back to the heart tree. "Nothing but an echo," He said. "They barely recognized the blood, seems their presence here is wavering with every passing moment. This place feels so empty..."

"I feel no different." Edwyn was concerned, stepping closer with every word.

Willam narrowed his eyes, taking a knee to stare into the eyes of the heart tree. "Winter is Coming." He growled the words like a wolf stalking it's prey, before braking away from the red eyes of the tree. "We should take our leave first thing in the morning."

"My prince," Edwyn began to protest. "perhaps you should rest on this, your tired."

"Perhaps." Willam sighed, a dark green hue glinting in his eyes for just a moment before it faded. He _was_ tired, warging those wolves all at once had taken it's toll and like with most things in his life Willam found himself thinking how his brothers would've handled all of this with ease. "Your right, Ed," He paused. "It's been a long day."

* * *

Willam fell asleep the moment his head hit the feather bed. He dreamt of the last conversation he'd had with his father before shipping off into the unknown, it had not been a pleasant departure. "I've always allowed your little adventures, boy!" His father barked with fury, the words as clear as the day he first heard them. "This is too far, none son of mine is going to throw away his life so bloody carelessly!"

"How is this any different than going south to fight for the empire?" Willam's shade replied, keeping his head high and refusing to look away.

"How?" His father's eyes grew brighter. "There is a fucking large difference between fighting in those southerners battle and sailing off into the sunset to your doom!"

"I could just have easily died in the south, you didn't seem to care then father!" Willam's shade shouted, taking a step forward to show he was not afraid. Looking back now Willam knew he was terrified and he now found himself wishing he'd not been so stubborn. It wasn't the same as fighting in the southerners battles, it was him flirting with death.

"Didn't care?" His father replied. Willam's heart broke looking at the event unfold, his fathers face at the suggestion that he didn't care.

"You didn't say a fucking word!" The shade roared.

"Don't be a fool. I-"

"No!" The shade stormed from the room, leaving Willam in the room alone with his father.

"I'm sorry," He spoke to the memory of his father. "I miss you. I miss you all..."

The memory looked at him, smiling sadly. Willam smiled back before waves crashed through the windows and submerged the room, an old feeling of dread washing over him as before he knew it he was once again watching his ship sink into the depths below. Finally he washed up on a shore where a beautiful woman was sprawled naked on the sand while five little men crawled over her, one was pumping between her thighs, another savaged her breasts, worrying at the nipples with his wet red mouth, tearing and chewing. Willam drew his sword at the sight only to fall to his knees, choking on blood as Stark sails appeared upon the horizon, sailing on a sea crimson with his blood.

"Willam." A voice spoke. "Will!" He snapped out of his thoughts, looking to the man who had slapped him over the back of his head.

"Yes brother?" Willam raised a hand to rub his eyes, he'd gotten little sleep since leaving Winterfell.

"We've arrived." Cregan shook his head at his brothers odd behavior during the trip south. Before them the banners of House Manderly flew proudly above white stone walls, they'd arrived at the city of White Harbor where Robb had promised a good ship would be ready for them to depart, not that the Lord of Winterfell had been at all happy to hear of Willam's desire to leave but he understood well enough the desire to see family.

"Prince Willam." A man in chain mail approached on horseback, wearing silver-colored armor with engravings like flowing seaweed. "Welcome to White Harbor, my lord bids I escort you and yours to the New Castle for a welcoming feast."

"Lord Wyman dose us great honor," Willam had snapped out of his thoughts and quickly recalled the name of the head of House Manderly. "Lead the way Ser..."

"Marlon Manderly," The old knight replied.

"Relation to his lordship?"

"He is my cousin." He said plainly, stroking his grey bread for a moment. "This way if you please, Prince Willam."

It was a short ride to the proud and pale New Keep, seat of the Manderlys built atop a hill rising above the city's thick white walls. They entered the Merman's Court decorated with faded banners, broken shields and rusted swords from ancient victories, and wooden figures from the prows of ships. It reminded Willam of the old banner of House Frost that still hung in Winterhold's great hall, as a reminder. "Lord Manderly," Willam respectfully bowed. "I thank you for your hospitality. It is an honor."

"Prince Willam," Lord Wyman smiled. "The honor is entirely ours, I assure you. It's been a far too long since these walls housed a Stark prince." The fat mermen proceeded to introduce his sons, each almost as fat as he. His eldest son Wylis and the second eldest Wendel. Both bowed their heads in respect as Wylis motioned for his daughters to present themselves to the prince.

"Prince Willam," The eldest spoke first, a pretty thing for one with such a large family. "I am Wynafryd and this is my sister, Wylla."

"Prince Willam," Wylla spoke after her sister. Unlike her sisters brown hair she had dyed hers garish green, her eyebrows left their natural blond.

Willam found himself quite taken with the eldest, although he'd readily kill the man who suggested it. "A pleasure to meet you both," He offered a smile. "Your city reminds me greatly of home, the smell of the sea and the sight of ships coming into dock." Willam scanned the eldest, brown hair bound in a long braid. "Your a beauty." He thought to himself as he unknowing kept staring at the girl, unaware that he'd said that last thing out load.

"Forgive my brother," Cregan hit Willam over the head haft heartily. "He'll gladly sail into the sunset, but is utterly useless in other things."

"Apologies," Willam nervously laughed, shooting daggers at his brother. "I admit I am quite out of sorts, afraid I lost my manners with my ship." The eldest Manderly girl seemed to have found it all very assuming, trying not to betray her smile. "And my brother here lost his sense of humor, he used to be _great_ at jests and now look at him, just tragic."

That got Wynadryd to release the smile she'd been rather obviously holding back, not to mention succeeding in braking the room away from the rather embarrassing moment they'd been stuck in a moment ago. Lord Wyman had laughed quite loudly at the jest, removing any tension in the room. "It's no trouble Prince Willam, it was quite flattering really."

Willam's smile returned at that. "I'm glad my horrible attempt at flattery had at least _some_ success then, my lady."

The feast was quite something, oxtail soup, summer greens with pecans, grapes, red funnel and crumbled cheese, hit crab pie, spiced squash, and quails drowned in butter. Willam had not eaten so well since King Robert's visit to Winterfell, the Manderlys had spared no expense, a feast fit for royalty. Cregan and Jon sat to either side of him at the table while Edwyn talked to Ser Marlon about procuring a ship for their journey. Lady Wynadryd sat across the table, giggling with her handmaidens when Willam once again caught his sight lingering in her direction, causing Cregan to roll his eyes at the spectacle before returning to his food.


	7. Chapter 7: War is Coming

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, i do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so i ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but i have no real schedule. Please review with your thoughts as i'd love the feedback.

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Notes: A somewhat short chapter leading up with more interesting things as Willam goes to fight and Cregan goes off into the unknown. This chapter spans the course of say, two weeks, of time with the Manderly's leading up to both brothers leaving the city via their own paths. I found myself conflicted about who would go where but ultimately it makes the most sense this way, allowing me to give PoVs from two different sides of the world. I look forward to fleshing out the Sunset Islands lore/history etc.

* * *

 **Chapter 7: War is Coming**

The man made a gargling sound as Willam withdrew the blade from his throat, another bandit another day it seemed. "Speak," Willam commanded another man who had gone wide-eyed at the loss of his fellows who were being subsequently put to the sword by the Manderly knights, he laid against a tree, flirting with death. "Your here on someones orders, tell me who sent you and I will spare your life."

The man chuckled at the notion, narrowing his eyes at the Stark. "Bastard promised us easy pickings." He muttered under his breath, low enough for Willam to be uncertain as to the words spoken. "I spit on your mercy," The man very literally spat on the ground, more blood than anything. "Nobody sent us to do nothing!"

"A poor lie, your steel is castle forged. Your no wildling." Ser Marlon walked up beside the prince, sword freshly bloodied.

The fools eyes spoke the words _"shit"_ as his mouth muttered. "We took them off the last bastards that crossed us!"

Willam had noticed it too, riding out they'd been expecting wildlings or bandits with iron and clubs. In place of such they found a band of some twenty dressed in wild garb but welding steel unfitting for their attire, a poor ruse, somebody somewhere was very disappointed with these men. "I ask again," Willam casually wiped the blood from his sword. "Who sent you? I will not ask you again..."

"I-" The man hesitated and whatever thought crossed his mind seemed to change quickly. "You'll get nothing from me, Stark."

Willam had enough of this. "Your loyalty would be commendable if it was not merely fear that kept you true." He knelt down to look the dying man in the eyes. "An effective tool fear, but men who bend to fear are not loyal, too many kings have failed that lesson through both our histories, failing to realize that a man who succumbs to fear can easily learn to fear somebody else. And you should fear me, wildling."

"You don't fool me, Stark." The man managed to laugh in reply. "You and yours are all honor and justice, no balls to speak of!"

"I am Willam Stark," He scowled as he began the speech. "Prince of the Sunset Sea. Honor is a thing for times of peace and justice, my dear wildling friend, is entirely subjective. You have committed high treason against House Stark, your liege lords. Where I come from the law might have you fastened to a hurdle and drawn by horse to the place of execution, where you'd be hanged almost to the point of death before being emasculated, disemboweled, beheaded and quartered. No less than you deserve."

"Q- Quartered?" The man asked, trying to judge if the Stark was being serious.

"It means your body would be chopped into four pieces, often sent to corners of the country as a warning to others." Willam kept his face blank, it was a bluff in truth, such punishment had only ever been performed once or twice in the history of the islands, to his knowledge at least. "I can think of few noble houses in the North that could install such fear in you, Bolton being the most obvious given how close we are to their borders."

"He's dead." Marlon spat.

"He was _just_ -"

"Wounds were deep," He explained, prodding the limp wildling with his sword. "Bastard had no more fight in him. We'll get no answers here."

"Would the Boltons do this?" Willam asked. His history told him little and often history could be a far stretch from the truth, either the truth gets lost or exaggerated as the years pass. Books claim that under the dreadfort the Boltons kept the skins of their enemies, the truth of the matter could easily be a lie, told by the Boltons themselves to instill fear in their rivals.

"Roose Bolton is a cold one," Marlon sheathed his steel and signaled his men to prepare for the ride home. "This would mean war however, too bold a move for him I feel."

Willam was unconvinced. "Perhaps, but in my experience it's the silent ones that are the most dangerous."

"We should return to White Harbor." One of the Manderly knights spoke up, anxious to leave.

"Aye," Willam was inclined to agree. "We'll stop off at Hornwood on the way, they should be made aware. There may be more where these came from but I am fairly certain the Hornwoods can handle any stragglers. If this was the Boltons, or any other lord for that matter, I doubt they would attempt the same risk twice."

* * *

"Your staying." Cregan stated bluntly, his vision narrowed.

"Yes." Willam rolled his eyes, his brother had been wanting to leave ever since they arrived. It had been days, the ship was right there and Cregan was growing more impatient with every passing excuse. Yesterday it was out of a desire not to be seen as rude, today it was to go off chasing outlaws, tomorrow it would be something else.

"To chase wildlings, or bandits." Cregan kept his blank expression, silently judging.

"Yes." Willam looked back at his brother with an equally blank stare. "To chase wildlings and bandits."

"These are not our concerns," Cregan sighed. "It's that girl you-"

"Leave her out of it!" Willam snapped, scowling.

"You like this girl."

"I-"

"You do." He interrupted before Willam could respond. "Then why not take the whore with you?"

"She is not a whore!"

"No?" Cregan raised an eyebrow. "Just because you didn't pay her to spread her legs doesn't-"

Cregan dodged to the side as Willam through a punch, instinctively grabbing the arm and twisting, causing Willam to yelp as his brother held his arm behind him. "You let anger get the better of you too easily." He spoke rather casually, uncaring even as he pushed Willam forward and out of his grasp. "It'll get you killed one day little brother. That mess with the Joffrey boy? Your lucky he was a craven."

"I could've easily-"

"Yes." Cregan interrupted yet again. "You would've easily killed him. And where would your actions have gotten us?"

Willam had no answer for that, more ashamed than angry. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Cregan sighed, shaking his head as his brother composed himself.

"I-" Willam hesitated and thought for a moment. "I think I love her."

"You said that about the first girl you laid with, remember?"

"Beth." Willam recalled her name, and the sorry state he'd been in when his father had refused to allow their marriage. "I remember, but this is not like that."

"No?"

"No." Willam sighed. "Just this once could you trust me?"

Cregan hesitated, seemingly hurt by the words. "I've been at your side for most of your life, little brother, when have I not trusted you?"

Willam smiled. "True enough, although I could live without the constant doubting."

"Father will have my head when I return without you."

"He'll understand." Willam replied, in truth he doubted his father would.

Cregan sighed, having given up on any thought of talking his brother out of this. "You'll have to come home eventually, you know that."

"Yes," He said. "assuming you actually make it home in the first place that is."

"I, dear brother, am not so easily killed."

Willam laughed at that, a foolish notion if he'd ever heard one. "Jon's going with you?"

"Aye," Cregan replied. "lad has nothing to inherit. He wants to see the world, reminds me of someone I know."

Willam tilted his head to the side. "Edywn?"

"Very funny."

"I try."

They stood in silence for a moment before Willam practically assaulted his brother with a hug. "Gods watch you brother."

"And you." Cregan walked away without another word, off to the docks were a large galley was awaiting their arrival. Willam preyed silently that his brother may return home without any trouble before he walked in the opposite direction back towards the hall. The hour was late and the Manderlys would want to know about his decision to stay.

* * *

It was obvious to Willam that the Manderlys were plotting something the moment he entered their hall, the size of the feast and introduction of the conveniently unmarried daughters were all things he had experienced before, there was not a lord back on the Islands that didn't want the favor of the only unwed prince they could get their hands on. The only house that didn't try to force their daughters upon him was that of the Fishers, who had too much pride to degrade themselves, and he respected them almost instantly for that fact alone. It was ironic that the one family who didn't try to gain favor was the one that succeeded, but he had always hated politics.

 _"You like her."_ The voice in his head spoke. It was right too, a small part of Willam knew that as he laid on the bed watching her sleep, the morning sun beginning to creep through the window. _"Your weak."_ Again the voice was right, they'd only been at White Harbor for a few days before Wynafryd found her way into his bed. Her grandfather had been furious, but Willam knew that act all too well, in truth the man was glad with his victory and assumed it only a matter of time before they'd wed and his beloved granddaughter would become a princess. _"Will you abandon her?"_ Willam had no answer for that. "I don't know," he whispered to himself. "I-"

"My prince." Wyna interrupted him, having opened her eyes and rolled over onto her back. She looked up at Willam with a warm smile.

"Princess." Willam said the first thing that came to mind, moving in to kiss her before he could say anything else stupid.

"Princess," She giggled. "I like it."

"Using me for my title are we?"

"You have other uses." Pulling him in for another kiss, the prince was clay in her hands. Willam had lost himself at that point and he didn't want to leave, deciding in that if he ever returned home, he'd take her with him. He'd been with women before, there was no shortage of nobles daughters who's fathers wanted to rise in favor, but Willam normally prided himself on not being this easy. It had been a long time however...

Willam was hers it seemed, and he silently cursed himself for it. "Such as?"

"Prince Wi-" Edwyn entered the room, almost immediately diverting his eyes as Wyna dragged the covers up to her chest to cover herself.

"What?!" Willam growled.

"Lord Manderly summons you," Ed made eye contact with the rather embarrassed lady. "You too, m'lady."

"This had best be fucking important Ed."

"I would not have come otherwise, my prince." Edwyn's eyes told him enough, the man was serious.

"Wait outside." Willam commanded and his friend happily obeyed.

"Is this about us?" Wyna asked, slightly concerned and still holding on tightly to the covers.

"I doubt it," Willam sighed as he left the bed to get dressed. "Your grandfather has known many days now, there is nothing else to discuss so urgently." He'd already spoken at length with the Lord of White Harbor the day after he'd first slept with Wyna, the man was very good at hiding his true feelings, but not good enough to fool Willam.

"The last time I was dragged from bed so early..."

"Yes?" Willam asked, haft dressed as he watched Wyna get out of bed herself and walk across the room to him.

She gave him kiss before picking up her own cloths. "The rebellion."

 _"War."_ The word echoed in his head. He'd been young himself when his father and brothers went off to war as a favor to the empire, it was the first conflict his people had seen in many years. "War." He said the word aloud. "Who could the North be at war with? King Robert seemed unlikely to allow such a thing."

"It could be local." Wyna said, putting on her last piece of clothing. "Or it could be nothing."

Willam laughed, placing a kiss on her forehead. "Your very calm about all of this."

"I am a princess." She winked. "Besides, it could truly be nothing."

Willam opened the door to the chambers, letting her walk through before him. "Princess's first."

It was a short walk to the Merman's Court where Lord Manderly was waiting for them, along the way many of the servants whispered among themselves no doubt thinking rather poorly of their lady as she passed them by, although they dare not say anything out loud least Lord Manderly or even Willam put a swift end to it. "Lord Manderly," Willam began as he entered the court. "You called."

Lord Wyman sat in his chair, one made wide enough for three grown men. "Yes," he straightened himself on the seat. "I apologize if I woke you."

"No trouble grandfather," Wyna offered a smile, taking Willam's hand in her own.

Willam couldn't help but admire her strength, she seemed to completely ignore the stare her father Wylis was shooting in their direction. "What do you need of me?"

"I'm afraid I once again find myself asking for your sword, lad." Lord Manderly said rather solemnly, handing some parchment to his cousin who processed to hand it to Willam. "A raven from Winterfell. Robb Stark has called the banners, and White Harbor shall answer."

"Treason." Willam spat the word. "What nonsense is this? I admit I only knew Lord Stark for a time but the man seemed above such things."

"Aye," The Lord of White Harbor seemed to agree fully. "Lord Eddard is a man of honor, these accusations will not go unanswered."

 _"Perhaps I should have spirited Wyna away while I had the chance."_ Willam thought as he read the summons, his eyes resting on her for a moment.

Her father seemed to catch that. "What are you intentions towards my daughter?!"

Willam looked at Wyna, who was seemingly not embarrassed. "I- I like her very much."

"I should bloody well hope so!" Wyna's father growled. "I imagine it convenient that a war brakes out, preventing a marriage..."

"Wylis," Lord Wyman spoke in his most commanding tone. "He is a prince, and he is not responsible for-"

"That is quite alright my lord," Willam stepped forward. "Ser Wylis is protective of his daughter, something I respect and... can honestly say I share. But this is a topic for a happier day my lords, perhaps we can get back to the situation at hand?"

"Wisely said." Wyman was happy, or even thrilled with the words. It was all but a proposal. "I will not sit idle while my liege is wrongly imprisoned and his heir calls for aid, the preprations are underway, I assume you will ride with my sons to meet the Stark banners at Moat Cailin. Prince Willam?"

"Gladly," Willam gave a respectably bow. "I will ready my things."

War was no stranger to the Islands, although in recently years things had been peaceful, many of the Islanders like Willam had gone to the empire of the south-east in search of glory; there was never a shortage of conflicts to be had there. Now it seemed to Willam that he'd fight another war, only this one would be different than the desert border skirmishes in the empire. If they lost here they would likely die, and pity for the poor bastards that killed him, for winter would come for them all.


	8. Chapter 8: This is War

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: A quick chapter before X-Mas. I introduce Rodrik the Ruthless, a true Prince of Winter and the polar opposite of Ned Stark. I find that I greatly enjoy writing about the Starks outside of Westeros more than about Willam in the Five Kings conflict. Would anyone be interested in a side-story that would go into greater depth about the Sunset Islands past/history/conflicts? Would be large chapters each detailing the history from the foundation of the islands to the start of _this_ story. Thoughts?

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 **Chapter 8: This is War**

Willam rode beside Ser Wylis and his brother Ser Wendel, leading their levies, near fifteen hundred men: some twenty-odd knights and as many squires, two hundred mounted lances, swordsmen and freeriders, and the rest foot,armed with spears, pikes and tridents. Lord Wyman had remained behind to see to the defense of White Harbor. A man of near sixty years, he had grown too stout for his horse. "If I had thought to see war again in my lifetime, I would have eaten a few less eels," he'd told Catelyn Stark when they'd met her at the docks. She'd returned from her misadventures in the south it seemed.

Outriders spied the Manderly banners- the white merman with a trident in hand, rising from a blue-green sea- and hailed them warmly. They were lead to a spot of high ground dry enough for a camp. Ser Wylis called for a halt there, and remained behind with his men to see the fires laid and horses tended, while his brother Wendle rode on with Willam, Catelyn and her uncle to present their fathers respects to their liege lord. The ground under the horses hooves was soft and wet. t fell away slowly beneath them as they rode past smoky fire pits, lines of horses, and wagons heavy-laden with hard bread and salt beef.

Just beyond, through the ungodly mists, Willam glimpsed the walls and towers of Moat Cailin... or what remained of them. Itwas in a sorry state, why nobody had attempted thought the years to repair such a strategic position was far beyond Willam. It seemed foolish to leave it in ruins. _"I'd have build it up long ago,"_ He thought to himself as he sat in his saddle. _"pity the poor bastards that tried to enter my lands."_ The Gatehouse tower looked sound enough, and even boasted a few feet of standing wall.

They found Robb inside the Gatehouse Tower, surrounded by his fathers lords, in a drafty hall with a peat fire smoking in a black heart. He was seated at a massive stone table, a pile of maps and papers in front of him, talking intently with two of his lords. At first it seemed he did not notice their arrival. "Mother!" That changed quickly.

"You've grown a beard," she said to Robb as his wolf sniffed Willam's hand.

Robb rubbed his stubbed jaw, suddenly awkward. "Yes."

"I like it." Catelyn spoke. "It makes you look like my brother Edmure."

Lords processed to offer their respects to the Lady Stark, all but ignoring Willam whom had already exchanged nods with Robb.

"I had not thought to see you here my lady." One of the lords said.

"I had not thought to be here," Catelyn said, "until I came ashore at White Harbor, and Lord Wyman told me that Robb has called the banners. You know his son, Ser Wendel." Wendel Manderly stepped forward and bowed as low as his girth would allowed. "And my uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, who has left my sister's service for mine."

"The Blackfish," Robb said. "Thank you for joining us, ser. We need more men of your courage. And you, Ser Wendel, I am glad to have you here. Is Ser Rodrik with you as well, Mother? I've missed him."

"Ser Rodrik is on his way north from White Harbor. I have named him castellan and commanded him to hold Winterfell till our return. Maester Luwin is a wise counsellor, but unskilled in the arts of war."

Willam cleared his throat, not liking the lack of introduction. "I shall introduce myself then it seems."

The lords all looked to him with that, a few whispering among themselves.

The largest bearded bastard Willam had ever seen spoke up first, hardly surprising. "I assume this is the alleged Stark Prince we've heard rumors about? That or it's the ghost of Brandon Stark that's came back from the dead to hunt Lannisters."

Willam smiled at that, not entirely certain what Brandon Stark he was referring to. "Brandon is my father, the name is Willam."

"Certainly looks like a Stark." The large man huffed, eyeing him up and down for some sign of a lie.

"Are we going by looks now?" Willam eyed Robb's red bread for a moment. "Aright then my lord please allow me. Heavily muscled with a fine beard and the biggest, ugliest greatsword I have ever seen, must be an Umber? Am I wrong?"

Silence washed over the room for a moment as the lords waited for Umbers reaction to what could be considered an insult. "Ha!" Umber roared. "I like you boy."

"That'll be my princely charm at work Lord Umber." Willam gave the man a grin as he learnt back against one of the more sturdier walls.

"I thought you were leaving Willam." Robb asked, curious.

"Blood is blood as my father would say." Willam shrugged.

" _Distant_ blood." Catelyn pointed out, continuing to annoy Willam more and more each day it seemed. The women seemed to have a general dislike for anyone with Stark blood that wasn't her children or a member of the bloody Night's Watch. Willam thought it a southern thing and tried his best to ignore the women.

"Blood is blood." Willam repeated the words, ignoring Catelyn. "Lord Eddard was kind to me and mine when he could have easily turned us away. He could have claimed me an impostor and tossed me aside or taken my head. I owe the man, if the Lady Stark demands a reason beyond mere blood ties. My sword is yours if you'd have it Robb."

"It is welcome, Willam." Robb smiled and continued, but not before shooting a look at his mother.

"You come from the Sunset Sea lad?" Umber asked.

"That is correct Lord-"

"Jon." The Umber replied, having not shared his name until now.

"Jon." Willam pushed himself off the wall, moving closer to the table.

"You claim to hold family close, even so distant as our Young Wolf here." The Greatjon continued. "Can we count on your families support? What men can they raise?"

"I'm afraid they likely think me dead, my lord." Willam learnt over the table and inspected some of the maps. "My brother Cregan and Lord Eddards son Jon set sail many days ago in an attempt to find a way to make contact with my father. They however are unaware of this conflict and I have no way of informing them of it."

"Snow's gone?" Catelyn asked.

Willam ignored her. "We can hope that my father sends a large escort to drag me back home assuming my brother makes contact, eventually perhaps my father would send men and ships but ultimately he may not see any gain in such a thing. It is a very long way to sail to fight somebody else's war... even if it is for our blood. If the Kingdom of the North still stood matters might have been different but I am afraid my father will crown himself King when he learns what I have come to learn."

"In other words we cannot rely on Willam's father in this." Robb sighed as he looked over the papers before him.

"A shame." Umber agreed, still eyeing the 'alleged' Stark with some suspicion.

"My lady, a question, as it pleases you." A lord spoke, he had a small voice, yet when he spoke larger men quieted to listen. His eyes were curiously pale, almost without color, and his look disturbing. A Bolton if Willam had to guess, his attire spoke enough to make the assumption a reliable one. "It is said that you hold Lord Tywin's dwarf son as a captive. Have you brought him to us? I vow, we should make good use of such a hostage."

She didn't have the dwarf it seemed, as Lady Catelyn explained how he'd captured and then lost the very valuable hostage 'by the will of the gods'. That made Willam laugh and all eyes fall on him once more once Catelyn and Robb has left the room to talk in private. "The will of false gods lost us a hostage she claims?" He shook his head. "There are no seven gods, only the old that were here long before the false. Somebody please remind me to pray that the gods release Lord Stark next, as they seem to be in a giving mood." That got a few laughs, although they tried to hide it for the sake of their lords wife.

"You sound mind your tongue boy," Umber growled. "that's Lord Starks wife your mocking."

Willam held his hands up in mock surrender. "My apologies, an honest jest to make light of the situation."

Umber scoffed at that. "You best speak as well with that sword lad."

Willam smiled, placing his hand on the pommel of his sword. "This is not my first war, my lord."

"No?"

"I killed my first man in the southern empire during a skirmish with the enemy, some bastard claimant or another was claiming the empire over his trueborn brother. I joined up with some volunteers and sailed south to wet my sword." Willam said as he recalled the events. "I was only five-and-ten at the time."

"Ha!" A Karstark spoke, Willam knew the sigil well from the islands. "Nothing sooner lad?

"I rode out with some Manderly knights not a month ago actually my lord," Willam's smile turned blank as he made eye contact with the Bolton. "cut us down some wildlings that had found their way into Hornwood lands. Made short work of them too, poor bastards must have been trained by a blind drunk."

"Wildlings that far south?" The Karstark seemed surprised.

"Aye," Willam nodded in response. "the Manderly knights thought it strange too."

Umber continued to question Willam for a time, the Karstark listening intently. It took a little back and forth, and at one point Willam thought the Greatjon was going to kill him, but the man seemed to _almost_ like him by the end of things. Willam left the room, off to explore the ruins of the Moat before the host moved deeper into the south.

* * *

These islands were stained with the blood of the locals, green-skinned demons, they found no mercy from the prince. Winter had come for them in force and nothing survived it's wrath. A few hundred captives were lined up along the coastline, their throats slit and bodies fed to the sea and the false god that they held, earning Prince Rodrik the nickname of Rodrik the Ruthless. "Report." Rodrik commanded, sitting in his high seat at the far end of a wooden table "What news of the other islands?"

"Little resistance brother, any captives were show the sword as you commanded." Edric Stark spoke, Rodrik's twin brother. They were practically identical if not for the fact that Rodrik kept his beard trimmed short while his twin was clean shaven. "Lord Fisher reports that he's lost a number of men fighting in the deeper jungles, but is confident of victory with limited losses."

Rodrik showed no emotion as he looked at the map before him, small markers showing each section of the fleet that had split up under the command of single lords, each with their own island to clear of local inhabitants. This was an extermination. "Good," he spoke and flicked some of the enemy markers off the map. "these islands will be ours shortly. Then we move on to bigger fish."

"My Prince," Lord Ryder lowered his head as he spoke. "now can you share with us your intentions?"

Edric remained silent, he too was curious. "I'd know too brother, you have been stubbornly silent in that regard. There are lords that question the need to take these islands."

"I aim to use these islands as more of a way-station than anything, my lords." Rodrik explained. "It's a ways to sail from here to our coming conquest, these islands act as a perfect midway point. The land is plentiful. The locals easily removed. It's future ports can also easily be governed by a single lord."

That caught the attention of a few lords present, eager for more land and title. "Who-"

"The position will be too important to rely on anyone but a Stark, gentlemen." Rodrik replied with a stern look that bore no argument from any man. "As such it is my brother, Prince Artos, that will be given the honor. He may be young but he is a Stark and I trust him to be worthy of that name."

"Will there be a keep to raise?" Edric asked, if he was disappointed in the decision he did not show it.

"In time." Rodrik nodded. "He'll need a seat to rule from, some standing force to ensure that trade flows smoothly."

"My congratulations to the young Prince." Lord Sunstark rolled his eyes. "You've dodged our original question however..."

"Patience, cousin." Rodrik growled, bringing up a somewhat freshly drawn map that showed a island larger than anything in the Hundred Islands and slamming it down on the table. "We'll leave some hundred men behind to finish up the locals here, while the rest of the fleet regroups and sails further west to this island. Ibben."

"Never heard of it." Ryder raised an eyebrow.

Rodrik shook his head. "You wouldn't have my lord, my scouts however have mapped it out in great detail and made contact with the locals."

This was news to Edric. "You've been busy brother, do share..."

"The largest island is called Ib, forested and mountainous containing two cities. South of Ib are scattered islands of little significance. Southeast however is a moderately-sized mountainous island called Far Ib, containing the city known locally as Ib Sar." Rodrik showed it all on the map, his scouts had been _very_ busy.

"These people like the word Ib, huh?" Ryder smiled.

"What kind of resistance can we expect?" Sunstark asked, curious now more than ever.

"They are a merchant people," Rodrik explained as he allowed the gathered lords to look at the map among themselves. "highly isolated from other cultures. This means they will be ill-prepared and without allies to call upon. Their fleet is laughable at best, although it will not be nearly as swift a fight as the last, we can be confident of victory."

Ryder looked over the map before handing it to the lord to his left. "What of the locals? Once we've taken their lands I doubt they will be content with our rule."

"They will die." Rodrik said bluntly, betraying no emotion.

The lords looked to each other, some whispering and others seemingly unaffected by the notion. " _All_ of them?" Sunstark asked, hesitant.

" _All_ of them." Rodrik replied. "They are from my reports incapable of reproducing with other 'races', such pairings leading to malformed and sterile offspring, or outright stillborns. As such the only course of action is extermination, I have spoken with the emperor and he is more than willing to aid in the re-population of the region."

"In return for what, brother?" Edric asked, knowing that nothing came free from the empire.

"A single port city to call his own." Rodrik shrugged. "He also stands to gain much from the increased trade we'll gain, the man knows a good investment when he sees one and will send a few thousand of his people over the years that follow our conquest. Once the locals are removed, their stain cleaned, the region will become our largest trading hub."

"And who would govern such a thing?" Edric asked, the smile that appeared on his brothers face telling him his answer before the words even escaped.

"You." He smiled, and he rarely smiled. "Or did you think I had forgotten my dear brother? I would trust no other with this honor."

"And the rest of us?" Lord Fishers heir spoke, he was here while his father led the southern operations.

"The region is vast." Rodrik put the lords at ease. "There will be ample opportunity for you all, have no fear of that."

Winter was coming for the peoples of Ib and like the green-skinned demons before them, there would be no mercy. It was not long before the Winter Fleet gathered with Prince Rodrik at the northern most island; where he shared his plans with all and finally set sail further west than the fleet had ever sailed before. In the back of his minds Rodrik recalled how his youngest brother had once spoke to him of going west to reach the east, and a small part of Rodrik clung to the hope of seeing his brother again.

* * *

Willam couldn't help but picture what his brother would do in this situation, he could see the Twins burnt to the ground and Stark banners using the rubble to cross the river. "You should call the cravens bluff." He suggested. "Tell him to either let us cross as is his duty or we'll siege his castle, turn it into his families tomb, and cross over the rubble."

There were more than few shouts of approval at that suggestion. "It would take too long and we'd lose too many men." Robb shook his head, his lords grumbled.

"Aye," Willam agreed. "but Frey would die. His family would die. His legacy destroyed. I say call his bluff and he'll quickly change his tone."

Silence at that as Robb thought. "No, if he refuses we'd be forced into a siege and Riverrun may fall before we could cross."

Willam sighed, the Frey had demanded payment for their crossing. A bride for Robb and a husband for his sister, along with some squires. "Then you wed the girl, here and now, and we cross without delay. There is a war to be fought and I for one my lords tire of waiting while the very riverlords we are trying to save demand payment from us."

"A wedding would take too long," Catelyn argued. "it can be done at the end of the war."

"You'll forgive my lack of trust in a banner that demands payment before allowing an army to save it's liege, Lady Stark." Willam began. "How long would the Frey swords remain by our side if Robb was to fall in battle _before_ wedding his frey wife? I say bed her here and now, secure this cravens loyalty and be done with it."

"That is not honorable." Robb said with a scowl.

 _"This is war. Honor is for peace."_ Willam thought to himself, but he knew Robb wouldn't agree. "I've said my peace Lord Robb, the choice is yours."

"Mother," Robb turned to Catelyn. "tell the Lord Frey that I accept his terms."

Willam tugged on his reigns and followed the Karstarks back towards their section of the camp. He'd befriended the youngest son of Karhold during the ride from the Moat, they got along well. "What you said," Torrhen spoke as he rode beside Willam. "about calling the bluff. Do you truly believe that would have worked?"

"A craven is only brave when he believes you weak, or sane." Willam explained. "Show him that your anything but and he will fall into line long before a truly brave man, offer him small honors and he'll take them as great ones. Lord Frey has broken his vow today by bargaining with his lieges life, my brother would have torn down those walls and crossed on the rubble."

"Sounds like a friendly one, your brother."

"He loves his family," Willam smiled at the memory. "and my fathers banners respect him. It's only enemies that need fear."

"Reminds me of stories I was told as a boy," Torrhen said. "about the old Kings of Winter."

"The Islands are not a place for weakness." Willam put it bluntly. "There is such a thing as being blinded by honor, a dangerous thing at that, blind to the dagger that your foe wields. Honor is a well and true thing in times of peace, but in war there is little room for such things. Winter is coming my friend, and the winter is _not_ kind."


	9. Chapter 9: The Whispering Wood

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: An entire chapter for the Whispering Woods. The first real taste of what Willam is capable of in a fight and he's more skilled than he lets on, similar to how Ned Stark doesn't advertise his swordsmanship, but in Willam's case it's more out of self doubt than anything. He's actually very skilled but his brothers have always bested him so he never claims to be anything special. This will likely be the last chapter for awhile until after the holidays. So I bid thee a Happy Holidays. :P

* * *

 **Chapter 9: T** **he Whispering Wood**

Ser Jaime Lannister had grown overconfident, taking the bait as he now chased after a small force of horsemen wearing Tully colors, the lions hubris would be it's undoing. "Steady," Willam held his hand up to hold his men, although in truth they were not his men. He rode beside Lord Karstark, his sons, and Edwyn whom had refused to be anywhere but at Willam's side. "we wait for the signal." He sat atop a fine black destrier dressed in attire almost identical to Robb's own, a thick leather surcoat with steel gorget and gauntlet to match. The thing that stood out was the pauldron that covered his right shoulder, a direwolf head carved into it back at White Harbor as a parting gift from Lord Manderly. An early wedding girl, Willam thought.

The Blackfish had picked off the lions scouts, blinding the beast and causing it to lash out foolishly at the first enemy force it laid eyes on. Jaime now entered a forested valley and right into the trap Robb set for him. To the West a horn sounded and Willam smiled to himself. "FOR THE NORTH!" He rared his horse, riding ahead of the others much to Edwyn's annoyance as he cursed under his breath and gave chase, followed by the Karstarks. Willam and Lord Karstark closed in from the north to join up with the Blackfish's men as they turned around to join in the charge. Morments and Umbers appeared from the western treeline. Stark and Frey banners from the east. Jaime Lannister stuck in the center of the valley, surrounded by the horns continued to blast.

"KILL THEM ALL!" Willam screamed so his men could hear him over the sounds of hooves and clashing steel, the others had already clashing into the Lannisters sides and had begun closing in the flank to prevent escape. Willam's force closed the front, crashing into the red and gold like waves upon rocks. "I mised this." Willam smiled, aching his swing from atop his horse and cutting down a Lann- "Fuck!" He cursed as somebody drove a spear into his horse, causing it to rear and fall to the cold floor. "You!" Willam growled as he got to his feet, pointing his sword at a Lannister man with a now broken spear, the head impaled in Willams horse. Two fools stood in his way, moving to protect who Willam assumed was either their lord or friend.

He side-stepped to dodge the first strike, cutting through the shaft of the spear and then cutting the wielders throat with the back swing. The second cried out at the loss of his brother-in-arms, raising his sword high. Willam held up his shield to block the blow, instantly followed by a swift stabbing motion that pierced the fools stomach and caused him to cry out in pain. The fool fell to his knees. Willam slit his throat without hesitation before continuing onward to the bastard that in Willam's mind 'murdered' his horse.

The man, a lord if Willam had ever seen one, seemed ill-prepared for the bloodiness of battle. "Nice pony." Willam taunted the man, he worse a pale grey doublet slashed with cloth-of-silver, with the amethyst unicorn pinned above his heart. "It'll make a fine target, seems only fitting!" The mans retainers were seemingly all dead as his eyes darted back and forth, looking at the scene around him as Lannister men were cut down in droves, a slaughter more than a battle. Willam stood before him blood splattered on his steel shoulder.

"Come on then!" He taunted, hoping to fight on _his_ terms rather than opponents.

The man tossed his broken spear aside, moving forward now with a long sword. _*Clash*_ Willam moved his shield into the arch of the enemies swing, putting all his strength behind the deflect and continuing to drive the lordling further and further backwards after the bash gained him the advantage. It wasn't lost enough the lordling fell backwards, tripping over some fallen Lannister men who's crimson colors could barely be recognized behind all the blood.

"I yield!" The lordling cried, tossing his sword aside and holding a single hand up in some vain attempt to shield himself while all around him Lannister men were either dead or dying. Willam hesitated, sword posed to cut the lordling down, a captive could be of great use assuming he was anyone of importance.

To Willam's right a lone Lannister solider was aiming his bow, only to be tackled to the ground by a direwolf, the archers throat ripped out within a mere second. "It's our lucky day it seems." Willam struck the lordling over the head with his shield before sprinting over to the wolf to thank it for effective saving him from either a wound or death. "Thanks." He said, pausing to catch his breath. "What is it boy?"

The wolf darted off, wanting him to follow. It was a mistake warging the creature before, Willam knew, but he hadn't expected to be around long enough for any bond it be made. Regardless what was done was done and couldn't be undone, not that anyone in the North seemed knowledgeable about the old ways. It was clear what the wolf wanted as Willam saw a golden knight cutting his way through Robb's guard. "Ser Jaime!" Willam cried at the top of his voice, seeming to get the knights attention as he closed the distance between them. Jaime's own retinue being cut down around him.

"Prince Willam." Jaime smiled, he'd cut down a number of Robb's guard. Willam noticed Torrhen Karstark in the arms of his brother, missing almost the entirely of his arm and bleeding heavily. He was a dead man from first glance, and from the look on his brothers face he knew it too.

"That one was my friend." Greywind walked by beside Willam, growling menacing.

Jaime shrugged in response. "Nothing personal. I didn't expect you see you here."

Stark and Frey men had surrounded the lion at this point, all seeming to wait for orders. "The Kingslayer is mine," Willam shouted for the men surrounding him to hear. "anyone interferes the wolf will see to your punishment. Is that understood?!"

Silence from those gathered men until Robb stepped forward, as bloodied as Willam and just as angry. "He's more use to us alive, Willam."

"Smart boy." Jaime smiled devilishly.

"I'm not going to kill him," Willam countered as he tossed his shield aside. "just hurt him a lot."

"I'll kill you." Jaime said, an honest warning if there ever was one.

"You'll try." Willam smiled and undid his cloak, the fine black fur falling to the ground as the two men circled for some time in silence. During the first blows Willam concentrated on his defense as he often preferred. He hadn't been completely honest with Jaime when they'd met at Winterfell, he was in truth far more experienced with a sword than he made a habit of claiming. He'd gotten much better over the years, learning different styles from the many places he'd visit, but he didn't think he'd ever surpass his brothers.

After several minutes of attempting to lure the lion into allowing his defensive stance, Willam lost his temper and began to batter at Jaime as if to pound him into the ground. The wandering wolf had expected a quick defeat and easy humiliation, not this, and his simmering anger now boiled. Jaime began to fight harder than he'd expected being necessary. Willam wouldn't be content with wounds and victory; he was out for blood. The crowd, who had chattered and cheered, became completely silent, and the air rang with the tintinnabulation of the singing blades and the hoarse rasp of both fighters' breathes.

Willam began to think desperately for a way out of the mess, this lion could give his brothers a challenge, and that worried him. Willam's sword slipped past Jaime's defenses and slashed toward his throat. Jaime dodged, laughing as if having a marvelous time. He praised loudly, "A wonderful strategy." When Willam slashed backhanded in a return blow, Jaime thrust his blade vertically and caught it before it cut him in half. "Excellent. Your better than you claimed, Stark!"

Willam blinked as if coming out of a daze but continued to go for blood. Jaime laughed and spouted praise for almost a minute before the prince's attack began to ease in its brutality. Their weapons caught each other high in the air, and they stood belly to belly, face to face. "Your good!" Willam growled and Jaime grinned in response.

Jaime danced away, bringing his sword forward. "What say you Stark? Truce?"

Willam panted heavily. _"You cant win this."_ The voice in his head told him. "Aye." Willam lowered his sword, as did Jaime. "Until next time, Ser Jaime."

"I look forward to it." Jaime tossed his sword aside, the Stark men rushing to restrain him.

Edwyn had rushed to his side, checking him for wounds. "You could've gotten yourself killed!" He continued patting him down looking for any wound. "Are you even listing to me? Willam?"

He wasn't. "I need to practice more."

Edwyn huffed. "You need to not lose your temper so easily!"

"You sound like Cregan."

"Well your brother has the right of it." Edwyn sighed. "No damage at least, thought the bloody lion had you there for a moment."

"Miss me would you?" Willam smiled.

"I'd be out of a job."

"I'd miss you too Ed." He clasped his guard on the shoulder before moving to get his shield.

"Your friend..."

"He fought well." Willam paused to look at Torrhen's body being lifted up by Karstark soldiers. "Men die in war Ed, it's always been that way. We'll drink to him later."

"His brother would have fallen too if you hadn't interrupted things."

"Huh," Willam thought on that. "it wont matter in the slightest. Lord Karstark will still call for blood."

Edwyn agreed, no stranger to war. "He's more useful alive."

"Try telling that to a grieving father." Willam sheathed his sword and strapped the shield onto his back, tossing his cloak at Edwyn whom caught it and rolled his eyes. The battle was a great victory, capturing Jaime Lannister along with Willem Lannister, Quenten Banefort, Gawen Westerling and the lordling from before, Tytos Brax.

* * *

The air was filled with the thunder of horses, the rattle of swords and spears and armor. They rode across a small stream, Willam on his new horse, riding behind the horse that carried Ser Jaime. The moonlight had silvered his armor and the gold of his hair, and turned his crimson cloak to black. Others rode behind them, long columns of them returning from battle with laughter and sorrow. Willam suspected the sorrow would be drowned in wine, as it often was.

They reached the top of the western most hill, where Lady Stark had remained to await the outcome of the battle. "Your hurt." She eyed Robb, the mailed sleeve of his surcoat black with blood. Robb lifted his hand, opened and closed his fingers.

"No," he said. "This is... Torrhen's blood, perhaps, or..." He shook his head. "I do not know."

A mob of men followed them up the slope, dirty and dented and grinning, with Greyjoy and the Greatjon at their head. Between them they dragged Jaime Lannister. They threw him down in front of Lady Catelyn's horse. "Ser Jaime Lannister." Willan announced. "Otherwise known as the Kingslayer."

Jaime rasied his head. "Lady Stark," he said from his knees. Blood ran down his cheek from a gash across his scalp, not a wound Willam recalled him having during their duel. "I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have mislaid it." He looked to Willam for a moment, who showed that he in fact had the lions golden sword stabbed to his belt.

Willam said nothing. "It is not your sword I want, ser," Catelyn told him. "Give me my father and my brother Edmure. Give me my daughters. Give me my lord husband."

"I have mislaid them as well, I fear."

"A pity," Catelyn said coldly.

"Kill him, Robb," Theon Greyjoy urged. "Take his head off."

"No," he answered, peeling off his bloody glove. "He's more use alive than dead. And my lord father never condoned the murder of prisoners after a battle."

"A wise man," Jaime said, "and honorable."

"Take him away and put him in irons," Catelyn said.

"Do as my lady mother says," Robb commanded, "and make certain there's a strong guard around him. Lord Karstark will want his head on a pike."

"That he will," the Greatjon agreed, gesturing. Lannister was led away to be bandaged and chained.

"Why should Lord Karstark want him dead?" Catelyn asked.

Robb looked away into the woods. "He... he killed..."

"Lord Karstarks son." Willam explained with no small hint of disgust.

"Torrhen, and Daryn Hornwood as well." Robb said.

"No one can fault Lannister on his courage," Galbart Glover said. "When he saw that he was lost, he rallied his retainers and fought his way up the valley, hoping to reach Lord Robb and cut him down. And almost did." Willam recalled it well, the lion had carved his way practically to Robb's doorstep before being surrounded and lured by the challenge of single combat. He'd saved Eddard Karstark in the doing, the lion would've cut him down without the interruption.

"He took Torrhen's hand off and split Daryn Hornwood's skull open," Robb said. "All the time he was shouting for me. If they hadn't tired to stop him-"

"- I would then be morning in place of Lord Karstark." Catelyn said. "Your men did what they were sworn to do, Robb. They died protecting their liege lord. Grieve for them. Honor them for their valor. But not now. You have no time to for grief. You may have lopped the head of the snake, but three quarters of the body is still coiled around my father's castle. We have won a battle, not a war."

"But such a battle!" said Theon Greyjoy eagerly. "My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell. We've taken close to a hundred knights captive, and a dozen lords bannermen. Not to mention the look on the Kingslayers face when Willam challenged him to a duel in the middle of a battlefield!"

Catelyn looked at Willam, but said to him. "And Lord Tywin?" Catelyn interrupted Theon before he could continue his gloating. "Have you perchance taken Lord Tywin, Theon?"

"No." Theon answered.

"Until you do, this war is far from done."

Robb raised his head and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. "My mother is right. We still have Riverrun."

"One thing at a time Robb." Willam said with a smile. "You've won a great victory here, regardless of there being more to come. It's not something to take lightly."

A furious Eddard Karstark stormed up the hillside, no doubt looking for Jaime as he eyed the golden sword on Willam's belt. "You took his sword."

"Aye."

"Why?" Eddard demanded, anger boiling up at the memory of holding his dying brother in his arms. Torrhen had not died quickly, bleeding out and grasping where his hand had once been, he bled out some time during the duel. Eddard had watched from the cold ground, Torrhen in his arms, praying that the lion would fall and his brother be avenged.

"Torrhen was a friend." Willam stated bluntly. "More importantly he was a Stark, cadet branch or no, as much my blood as Robb or my own brothers. There will come a time when I have a chance to avenge him, and I'll use this sword to do the deed." Willam shrugged. "Call it poetic justice if you wish."

Eddard hugged him briefly after a moment of silence, much to Willams surprise. "I'd be dead too if not for you, don't think I'll forget it. House Karstark remembers it's debts."

"I've done nothing yet." Willam said as he looked out with a sigh at the woods where they'd been fighting moments ago. "The next time I fight Lannister I'll not make the same mistakes, and only one of us will walk away. You can thank me then assuming I'm the one to do so."

Eddard scoffed at that and called after him as Willam began walking away. "I was there, you almost had the bastard!"

"No," He muttered to himself as he walked. "I didn't."


	10. Chapter 10: Happy Holidays

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: I thought I'd do a quick/short chapter for Artos Stark back home on the Islands. He'll not get another for a LONG time. Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Happy Holidays**

Brandon's Landing was alive with music and merriment, the streets packed with citizens celebrating the end of the year. Merchants set up stalls selling festive wares ranging from hot beverages to firewood. Brandon the Shipwrights statue in the center of town was decorated with candles, the docks frozen over with a thin layer of ice, the entire city cloaked in snow. Above the city stood Winterhold, the great seat of House Stark, standing defiant atop the cliff looking out over the city below.

Inside the main keep Artos Stark was hosting his brothers lords for the seasons celebrations, the grey stone walls were draped with banners and a singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad as Artos sat on the raised platform beside his wife to his left with Rodrik's wife to his right. The Stark children sat below the raised platform eating their fill and talking happily with their brothers, sisters, cousins and other relations. The great hall was only haft full, with many lords being absent since sailing with Rodrik.

His wife placed her hand on his to remind him of his speech, gods how Artos hated giving these things. "My lords and ladies, if I may have your attention." he rose with a cup of warm wine in hand. The room fell silent, his children stopping their antics to look up at their father. "Allow me to formally welcome you all to Winterhold. It is always a pleasure to host these gatherings. My brother could not be here as you all know, the lure of glory has called many of our loved ones away this winter, and I know you'll all join me in raising a cup to success and more importantly, to them safely returning home to us."

The room muttered in agreement as held up their cups. More than few wished they too were out fighting, something Artos could relate to.

"To the Winter Fleet!" Artos held his cup up. "May the gods watch over them, and return them victorious."

The guests cheered in unison, drinking deep from the cups. Artos sat back down and the feast continued as before. Soup, grapes, red funnel and crumbled cheese, hot crab pie, spiced squash, and more fish dishes than Artos cared to name; the Islands primarily lived on the fish trade with what little hunting there was to be had. There was hunting however and meats like venison were a delicacy reserved for the nobility in order to avoid over-hunting. Everyone else settled for rabbit, duck, cattle and other more readily available sources. "It's a good turnout." Artos's wife smiled, looking out over the hall.

"Aye," He agreed, shoving a piece of venison into his mouth. "more came than expected."

"Their own halls must be rather empty."

She spoke the truth, most lords had jumped at the chance to sail with Rodrik for the chance of glory and land. Years of peace had long begun to wear on the Islands and it showed well on their attitude. "Wives, children, old folk." Artos scanned the tables. "Very few fighting men left. They've all left with Rodrik and Ed, not that I blame the lucky bastards."

"My dear husband," His wife grinned. "are you implying you don't enjoy spending time with me?"

Artos rolled his eyes. "Very funny, you know what I mean."

"I do." She shook her head, she knew how angry her husband was when he was left behind by his brothers.

The peace in the hall lasted all of a few minutes before- "HEY!"

"It suits you."

"MOTHER!"

Rodrik's wife sighed. "Don't throw food at your sister..."

"It's an improvement." The young Stark smiled at his own greatness, until his sister tossed some food back at him. Suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.

"YOU!"

"Not so funny now is it?!" She stuck out her tongue.

"Enough!" Artos raised his voice, silencing his bickering nephew and niece. "What would your father say if he was here?"

"Sorry uncle."

"Sorry."

They both lowered their heads as the other children giggled among themselves. "You'll finish your food like civilized little pups, or you'll go to bed without another bite!" His threat lingered in the air for a moment, brother and sister staring at each other as if to say 'this isn't finished' before returning to eat the food in silence. Artos was in that moment beyond glad he only had the one pup of his own.

"Ambassador." Artos straitened himself on his seat as the dark skinned man stepped up to the raised platform. "I trust your enjoying the festivities."

"Your family never fails to enjoy themselves." He said, not unkindly. "His imperial highness sends his best, to you and your brother in his conquest to the west. He only wishes the empire could do more to aid in Prince Rodrik's venture, alas we often find ourselves, the empire is sadly preoccupied."

"Another conflict brewing?" He raised an eyebrow, the empire rarely saw peace for more than a few years. "I'm afraid we'll be in no position to assist."

"Naturally," the man did not seem shocked in the slightest. "we don't expect you to. It's nothing we cannot handle."

"Good to hear." Artos replied. "Is there anything else?"

"No." The man said with a blank expression.

"Well then give the emperor my best when you return home, until then do enjoy yourself."

"I intend to." He bowed, taking his leave as quickly as he came.

"Another war in the east." Rodrik's wife scowled, the women was more a warrior than a lady. She'd almost went with her husband to war but Rodrik would have none of it for whatever reason. Artos assumed it was out of a desire to know his wife was safe at home with his children.

"No concern of ours." Artos spoke, leaning forward on his seat.

"Trouble in the east is always our concern, Artos."

"Not when almost all of the fleet is off conquering," He countered with a rather stern look. "and not when the winds of winter are so close. Rodrik has already dragged his people into one war and the lords will want nothing but peace when they return home battered and tired from fighting. The east is _not_ our concern, not right now at least."

The feast continued on without anything of note. Outside the walls of Winterhold the city began to die down as the folk returned home and abandoned the streets in an attempt to stay warm. The snows were coming, earlier and thicker by the day, soon winter would truly be upon them and on the Islands that meant only one thing. Death. Winter on the islands was nothing short of hell and there was a reason most lords had a bastard son, it never hurt to have a backup encase the worst happened.


	11. Chapter 11: Conquest of Ibben

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: Rodrik's conquest of Ibben in as much detail as I could muster would having to drag out. The Ibbenese for those of you whom are unaware are skilled sailors (whalers for the most part) but have not done much of anything since the Doom. Their military is therefore no match for the Starks, whom took them unawares and using their many wargs were able to scout with ease and fight the enemy on their terms. I introduce Lyarra (Rodrik's eldest sister) who is apart of a brotherhood/cult tied to the Old Gods using a little Mossovy taught magic. I'll go into greater detail about all of that at a later date but overall, they are shapechangers, akin to wargs but far more powerful and bound to the gods. They don't answer to Rodrik. The next chapter will likely be Cregan and a little of Artos as I want to give more detail on Winterhold and the surrounding islands etc.

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Conquest of** **Ibben**

Far Ib was a mountainous island southeast of Ib settled by the Ibbenese. It is the second largest of the isles of Ibben and is a bleaker and poorer place, directly in the path of the Winter Fleet. The town located on the island, know locally as Ib Sar, was the only Ibbenese town on the entire island. It was filled with the lowest of the lowest that the Ibbenese had to offer, leading to most fleeing upon the sight of the thousands of Stark sails that appeared on the horizon. Ib Sar was burnt days past, everyone cut down from the armed defenders to the babes at the breast, no mercy was shown and now all that remained of Ib Sar was ash and ruin. In response to the unprovoked slaughter the forces of Ibben rallied with some haste, landing on the northern most beach of Far Ib and blindly moving through the mountain passes in the hopes of taking the invaders by surprise.

Rodrik peered down from above, watching the army of hairy axe-loving locals, knowing his own body was being carefully watched and protected. He felt the cold winds blowing past his wings. He could see for miles around, flying above with a view that was known only by skinchangers, looking down upon the twists and turns of the mountain passes and watching as his enemies came to him. He wasn't the only warg in the skies, there were a few dozen, leaving no part of the mountain uncovered, ensuring that every detail of the enemy host was noticed, every solider, every straggler and every weakness was seen and accounted for. He soared higher than any of the others, uninterested in watching single people, but the host as a whole. They were some ten thousand strong by his count, armed with axes and shaggy brown shields. From the heights it was hard to get a good look at the Ibbenese peoples, although reports from the Sacking of Ib Sar suggest them a hairy and short people with sloped brows and small, sunken eyes, so by all accounts an ugly and strange people. They would not be missed. Rodrik thought a silent prayer for the gods to grant these people some mercy, for he would offer them none.

He dived lower, exiting the narrow mountain pass ahead of the enemy and entering a large open valley with a small pristine lake to the right that fed a small waterfall. He could see himself up ahead, knelt at the front of his formation beside a number of other wargs that had joined him in the sky. He processed to disconnect himself from the bird.

Prince Rodrik had gathered some five thousand men to his side, glad in heavy plate with large and strong shields. "Prepare yourselves!" He commanded, getting up from his knelt position at the head of his host. "The fools have taken the bait, and victory will soon be ours for the taking!" Rodrik drew his sword. His eagle dove above him as the Ibbenese host entered the opening of the small valley on the opposite side, the looks on their ugly faces was priceless. "It seems they weren't expecting us!" Rodrik jested, getting a laugh from his men to raise spirits. Both armies were all afoot, what horse Rodrik brought for the invasion was somewhat limited and not ideal for these conditions. The enemy were shouting and muttering among themselves, shocked that the enemy had somehow met them. These were _their_ lands. How did foreign invaders know it so well? Regardless, the enemy seemed to understand that they outnumbered the invaders two to one. They charged forward, pass the lake, straight to Rodrik and his men.

"SHIELDS!" Rodrik cried, raising his large rounded shield and locking it with his men's own shields. A wall of steel was formed at the pass.

 _*Clash*_

The Ibbenese crashed into the shield wall like waves upon the rocks, braking on spear and sword. "HOLD!" Rodrik cried, driving his sword outward in a stabbing motion. "WE HOLD!" Rodrik had taken with him experienced swords, the very best his homeland had to offer. These were true soldiers serving for years under arms, officers staying on for longer. The bulk of the Islands military consisted of levied men and women as one would expect, but the elite standing army of Winterhold was a different story. Well armed, well trained, well equipped, gathered from around the Islands from all walks of life and trained to fight as a group rather than as warriors in single combat. They fought as a unit, never breaking in search of individual glory. They knew their strength came from functioning as a whole, like bricks in a wall.

The clashing of steel and spilling of guts went on for barely a minute before the sound of shouts came riding on the northern wind. "TO YOUR PRINCE!" A man screamed in the distance, his voice barely making it to Rodrik past the chaos of battle. After dropping another short hairy bastard Rodrik sighted a glorious thing, that of his brother storming through the pass behind the Ibbenese. The second host locked their shields and began to slowly advance, slamming steel against shield to get the enemies attention. They chanted curses, mainly insulting the enemies mothers.

"PUSH!" Rodrik commanded, his shield wall advancing against a shocked and tired enemy. Step by step they gained ground and eventually connected with the second wall, merging into a single formation that continued to push back the enemy. "TO THE LAKE!" The voice of Prince Edric rang in the air as the invaders pushed what remained of the enemy towards the lake. "VICTORY IS OURS!"

It was been bloodier than Rodrik hoped, too many of his own had been killed or wounded. He'd envisioned a clearer trap. The enemy, or at least the few thousand that remained out of the ten thousand that charged forward at the start of things, were successfully pushed back to the frozen lake. Those that refused to comply were cut off and dealt with. Now the remains of the Ibbenese host stood, some slipping, on the bed of ice waiting for a blow that never came. "HOLD!" Rodrik commanded, his army halting on the edge of the ice. The shield wall remained intact, the weaker chains reforging themselves quickly during this momentary pause.

High cliff walls surrounded the small frozen body of water and the army that called it home, the only exits being through Rodrik's army or down the waterfall to the rear. Atop the walls were the thing that had kept the invaders at bay, as numerous dark figures appeared on the edges, standing ominously as their cloaks fluttered in the breeze. Rodrik stepped forward a few steps out of his shield wall and held his arm up in the air, smiling at his enemy.

"Winter is Here." Rodrik muttered to himself before lowing his hand in one swift motion. The figures above followed the command and arrows began to rain down onto the ice and those unlucky enough to not be paying attention, or simply lacking shields to protect themselves. The Ibbenese wore no plate, the attire that protected them doing nothing to stop the rain of death that now faced them. Most cowered and died. Some rushed Rodrik's wall of shields and others jumped down the waterfall in an attempt of escape, they would not be followed, assuming they were lucky enough to survive the fall. All in all victory was had and the bulk of the Ibbenese force wiped out with minimal cost to the invaders. The archers above the cliffs vanished and in the background Rodrik's eagle was circling above.

A women placed a hand on Rodrik's shoulder, causing him to spin around. She was lean of build and long of face, wearing a dark green longcoat sewn together in such a way as to make it look like a dress of leaves and a green cloak with a red cloak-clasp in the shape of a leaf. Her belt was like bark, and in the darkness of her hood green eyes seemed to almost glow. "Brother," The women spoke as she pushed back her hood to reveal dark flowing hair and a warm smile "the day is yours."

"As if there was any doubt." Rodrik smiled, pulling his sister into an embrace. "It's been too long Lyarra."

"The gods are happy, brother."

Rodrik's smile died as he looked around. "We lost too many."

"They will be welcomed."

"Aye," Rodrik sighed. "a small comfort to the living I fear."

Lyarra shook her head. "What now?"

"Word must be sent to the fleets, can your people handle that?"

"They are not _my_ people, dear brother."

Rodrik kept his expression blank. "Can you handle it or not?"

"Yes," Lyarra smiled as she put her hands up in mock surrender. "we shall handle it. Brandon is on the north fleet no?"

Rodrik's smiled returned for a mere moment, before vanishing in turn. "He'll be glad to see you, send the boy my regards."

* * *

The salt water below her was still as a lake as she soured in between the sails of Fisher, Mormont and Ryder colors. Ahead was a true warship, a galley of two decks built years ago from oak and ironwood, a creation with a few ideas taken from years of trial and error and some suggestions from the empires galleys to create a ship with a single purpose. Scores of scorpions bristled the decks, with spare parts kept in the holds below alongside a trained crew of carpenters who could mend any damage the ship took, whether it was caused by storm or battle. The sails were graced with the wolf of Stark. She dived in from behind, souring over the deck and landing behind a man she knew well.

"Nephew." Lyarra spoke, a cloud of raven feathers and black vapours dissipating behind her.

The man, a boy in truth, jumped around at the voice. "Shit!" He cursed, sighing when he noticed there was no danger.

Lyarra laughed. "Your father sends his regards."

"You know I hate it when you do that Lya!"

"And yet it remains funny." She smiled, embracing her nephew and pulling back to inspect him. He wore attire akin to his father, a breastplate with faulds attached to protect the front waist and hips, along with matching gauntlet and legs. The prominent feature was the duel pauldrons covering his shoulders, unlike his fathers in the sense that Rodrik's right shoulder was that of a wolves head where Brandons was a far more simple design, and Lyarra would argue, more practical.

"What news?" Brandon asked, curious.

"Victory in the pass." Lyarra moved to the edge of the ship to look out at the horizon, a great city was burning. It was a city of cobbled alleys, steep hills, and teeming docks and shipyards, lit by whale-oil lamps suspended on iron chains. It was grey, gloomy, and being sacked by a large force of men. You could see the fires and smoke from off the shore.

"Victory here too," Brandon stated proudly, having moved to her side. "after we sunk their pathetic fleet off the northern coast of Far Ib it was smooth sailing to this port. The city was ill-prepared and Lord Fisher ensured me the city would fly our banner within the hour."

"I'm surprised your not in there fighting." Lyarra raised an eyebrow, her cloak blowing gentle in the light breeze. On her back was her longbow made of weirwood, along the bow runes of the old tongue were carved that only her people, as Rodrik put it, truly understood.

Brandon growled at that, clearly annoyed. "Lord Fisher assured me it would be a slaughter, no place for a Prince he said."

"I'm certain your time will come Bran."

He sighed. "I need to prove myself if I ever to lead. Have the gods said-"

Lyarra interrupted. "The gods say a lot of things, but only some of it makes sense. If it's important, I think we'll figure it out before long, and if it's truly important, they would have told us. My brothers and sisters wouldn't be here if the gods were not wish Rodrik in this however, so try to take some comfort in that Bran."

"I know." Brandon kept his eyes on the burning city, wishing he was leading the men there rather than sitting on the flagship merely watching from a distance.

* * *

The Conquest of Ibben was well and truly done for the most part, any army the locals could field had been crushed and the major port towns and cites were now flying Stark banners and the invaders were already consumed by argument over who would be granted what land as reward for their undying loyalty and great sacrifice, their words, when in truth they did little but slaughter rather disadvantaged savages. Rodrik had been hailed as the Ambitious and the Conqueror but the name that stuck was the Ruthless due to his orders of wiping out the entire population of Ibben, a terrible deed, but one that would save his people years of civil uprising and difficulties. The Prince was now in the Port of Ibben, a name that would need to be changed, walking into a colossal palace of rough-hewn stone that dominated the Port.

The palace ceiling was high, with thick stone rafters holding up a steep roof. The dais was wide and high, big enough that a good thousand could be feasted on the high table in comfort and a thousand more beneath the salt, maybe more if they removed the proud statues that lined the walls. Tapestries rot, paintings fade... but statues are forever. This was the main hall, by the looks of things, it had taken some time for Rodrik's party to find and to their surprice the ruins of the once great seat of the God Kings of Ibben was entirely untouched. _"They likely thought it cursed."_ Rodrik thought, his men talking among themselves. Brandon held up a hand to one of the statues, removing the dust from the seemingly bronze statue.

"Father," Brandon called. "this is not bronze."

The boy was right upon closer inspection, at first it seemed bronze in the darkness and dust where no light shun on the things. Removing the dust the light of a torch revealed the statue to be gold, no doubt made in the likeness of the old 'God Kings' that ruled here. "God kings." Lord Fisher laughed. "Melt the bastards down I say."

"Aye." Rodrik was inclined to agree, noting the golden chandelier that hung high over the room. This place would make them rich.

"Why leave all of this untouched?" Brandon wondered, asking aloud. The entire place was a ruin, sections of the roof being entirely lost in certain rooms they had passed, yet it seems like they were the first people to step foot here since... well... since the alleged God Kings themselves sat in these halls.

"Cursed most likely." Rodrik voiced his earlier thought, smiling at his eldest as he quickly removed his hand from the statue.

Lyarra laughed at the boy, shaking her head. "Have no fear Bran, these false gods are long dead."

"Know anything of them, Lya?"

She did know a little. "God-King of Ib was the title held by the ruler of Ibben prior to their fall. Under their rule, the Ibbenese conquered and colonized a huge swath of land to the south of here, the last God-King was overthrown. Since that day, Ibben is ruled by the Shadow Council."

"Dead." Lord Ryder muttered, recalling how they'd cut down a group of fools in what seemed to be a council chambers or something like what Ryder would have considered such a chamber to look like anyway. There was no real way to know, the men were dead, and what locals lived were either being hunted down or had fled into exile.

The end of the great hall was dominated by a large golden throne.

"Gods..." Lord Fisher muttered.

"False gods." Lyarra corrected, brushing her cloak aside to kneel and inspect the many objects on the bottom on the throne.

"What is this?" Brandon asked, standing behind his father.

"Offerings." Lyarra guessed, picking up a handful of silver coins and letting them pour from to the floor.

"What kind of god needs gold and silver?" Ryder asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

Lyarra smiled. "The false kind, my lord."

Rickard stepped forward and processed to sit on the large throne.

"How is it?" Ryder asked, a smirk on his face.

"Bloody unconformable." Rodrik replied, getting up off the throne before he continued to address the men that had traveled with him into the palace. Mainly lords and their sons along with a number of his personal guard and a handful of Lya's people. "We'll strip this place to the bone, melt down anything we cant carry, the spoils will be shared equally."

A muttering of agreement from those lords present, not that they could complain, there was enough to go around and still find ones self noticeably richer. "The gods will want eyes here Rodrik, as was promised." Lyarra stated, she and her fellows answered only to the gods. No moral man or women held sway over their actions, nor demands. The gods spoke and they obeyed no matter the words.

Rodrik was not one to anger the gods. "I promised and it will be done, sister. I leave you and yours to handle the arrangements."

Lyarra gave a nod in return before leaving the hall, the others glad in the same green attire following her out. There was ritual involved in the planting of a new hearttree, you did not simply plant it and call it a day. Rodrik was never one for such fanciful rituals but again would not anger the gods by refusing them such rights. His father, gods rest his soul, had always taunt his sons to respect tradition. The gods would have their eyes on Ibben, and elsewhere too if Rodrik had anything to say about it.


	12. Chapter 12: King in the North

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: I have 2 stories for Willam in my head, one much darker and longer than the other, to the point that I'd feel sorry putting the poor bastard through such hell. Rodrik's is more set in stone however, he's a purpose to fulfill and will spill a _lot_ of blood before we're done. Others will need to die too... cant have a good story without a lot of dead and/or suffering characters. The next chapter will pick off from the ending of this chapter and the aftermath of the Ibben Conquest. Thanks for reading.

\+ To sum up the difference between Wargs and Shapechangers, one borrows the skin of an animal while the other actually _becomes_ the animal.

* * *

 **Chapter 12: King in the North**

The war council convened in the Great Hall, at four long trestle tables arranged in a broken square. Lord Tully was too weak to attend, asleep on his balcony, no doubt dreaming of his youth and more peaceful times. His son and heir Edmure sat in the high seat of the Tullys, with his uncle the Blackfish at his side, and his fathers bannermen arrayed to right and left and along the side tables. Word of the victory at Riverrun had spread to the lords of the Trident, drawing them in from far and wide.

The northern lords sat opposite, with Catelyn and Robb facing her brother across the tables. They were fewer. The Greatjon sat at Robb's left hand with Willam on his right, and then Theon Greyjoy; Galbart Glover and Lady Mormont were to the right of Catelyn. Lord Rickard Karstark, gaunt and hollow-eyes over the loss of his son, took his seat to the right of Willam like a man in a nightmare, his long beard uncombed and unwashed. He had left one son dead in the Whispering Wood and there was no word of the other, his eldest, who had led the Karstark spears against Tywin Lannister on the Green Fork. Eddard Karstark sat beside his father, the lads survival doing little to calm the anger that his father felt over the loss of possibly two sons. If he was grateful to Willam he had not shown it, although the young Eddard had all but embraced him as a brother.

The arguing raged on late into the night. Each lord had the right to speak, and speak they did... and shout, and curse, and reason, and cajole, and jest, and bargain, and slam tankards on the table, and threaten, and walk out, and return sullen or smiling. Willam sat and listened to it all with a grin, this reminded him greatly of home. Roose Bolton had re-formed the battered remnants of their other host at the mouth of the causeway. Ser Helman Tallhart and Walder Frey still held the Twins. Lord Tywin's army had crossed the trident, and was making for Harrenhal. And there were two kings in the realm. Two kings, and no agreement.

Many of the lords bannermen wanted to march on Harrenhal at once, to meet Lord Tywin and end Lannister power for all time. Young, hot-tempted Marq Piper urged a strike west at Casterly Rock instead; the lad reminded Willam of himself. Other wiser men counseled patience. Riverrun sat athwart the Lannister supply lines, Jason Mallister pointed out; let them bide their time, denying Lord Tywin fresh levies and provisions while they strengthened their defenses and rested their weary troops. Lord Blackwood would have none of it. They should finish the work they began in the Whispering Wood. March to Harrenhal and bring Roose Bolton's army down as well. What Blackwood urged, Bracken opposed, as ever; Lord Jonos Bracken rose to insist they ought pledge their fealty to King Renly, and move south to join their might to his.

"Renly is not the king." Robb said. It was the first time he had spoken, until now being smart enough to merely listen. A good trait for a lord to have, that much Willam knew.

"You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, my lord," Galbart Glover said. "He put your father to death." That news had hit Willam harder than he'd expected at the time, in truth he hardly knew the late Eddard Stark, but the idea of any Stark being executed did not sit well with him in the slightest. Blood demanded blood and if there was anything war promised, it was blood and plenty of it. At least if his family had any say in the matter.

"That makes him evil," Robb replied. "I do not know that it makes Renly king. Joffrey is still Robert's eldest trueborn son, so the throne is rightfully his by all the laws of the realm. Were he to die, and I mean to see that he dose, he had a younger brother. Tommen is next in line after Joffrey."

"Tommen is no less a Lannister," Ser Marq Piper snapped.

"As you say," said Robb, troubled. "Yet if neither one is king, still, how could it be Lord Renly? He's Robert's younger brother. Bran cant be Lord of Winterfell before me, and Renly cant be king before Lord Stannis."

Lady Mormonet agreed. "Lord Stannis has the better claim."

"Renly is crowned," said Marq Piper. "Highgarden and Storm's End support his claim, and the Dornishmen will not be laggardly. If Winterfell and Riverrun add their strength to his, he will have five of the seven great houses behind him. Six, if the Arryns bestir themselves! Six against the Rock. My lords, within the year, we will have all their heads on pikes, the queen and the boy king, Lord Tywin, the Imp, the Kingslayer, Ser Kevan, all of them! That is what we shall win if we join with King Renly. What dose Lord Stannis have against that, that we should cast it all aside?"

Willam liked this man. "Ser Piper is correct, the choice here is a clear one Robb."

"Renly doesn't have the right." said Robb stubbornly. It reminded Willam of the Twins situation all over again, gods help them.

"So you mean us to declare for Stannis?" asked Edmure.

"I don't know," said Robb. "I pray to know what to do, but the gods did not answer. The Lannisters killed my father for a traitor, and we know that was a lie, but if Joffrey is the lawful king and we fight against him, we will be traitors."

"How many Lannister men have we killed already?" Willam asked the question, directing it to the table.

"Not enough!" A lord replied, earning a few laughs.

"If my experience with this Joffrey is anything to go on, my lords, I expect the boy king has already branded us as traitors." Willam gulped down some of his wine. "We have already come too far to turn back now, and blood demands blood. I for one am not finished for the lions."

There was a roar of agreement at that. "My lord father would urge caution," aged Ser Stevron said, with the weaselly smile of a Frey. "Wait, let those two kings play their game of thrones. When they are done fighting, we can bend our knees to the victor, or oppose him, as we choose. With Renly arming, likely Lord Tywin would welcome a truce... and the safe return of his son. Noble lords, allow me to go to him at Harrenhal and arrange good terms and randoms..."

A roar of outrage drowned out his voice. "Craven!" the Greatjon thundered. "Begging for a truce will make us seem weak," declared Lady Mormont. "Randoms be dammed, we must not give up the Kingslayer," shouted Rickard Karstark.

"Why not peace?" Catelyn asked.

Willam looked at her, not noticed the hole room doing the same. Robb was the one to speak. "My lady, they murdered my lord father, your husband," he said grimly. He unsheathed his longsword and laid it on the table before him, the bright steel on the rough wood. "This is the only peace I have for Lannisters."

The Greatjon bellowed his approval, and other men added their voices, shouting and drawing swords and pouding their dists on the table. Catelyn waited until they had quieted. "My lords," she said then, "Lord Eddard was your liege, but I shared his bed and bore his children. Do you think I love him any less than you?" Her voice almost broke with grief, but Catelyn took a long breath and steadied herself. "Robb, if that sword could bring him back, I should never let you sheathe it until Ned stood at my side once more... but he is gone, and a hundred Whispering Woods will not change that. Ned is gone, and Daryn Hornwood, and Lord Karstark's valiant son, and many other good men besides, and none of them will return to us. Must we have more death?"

"Aye." Willam spat. "Good men have died and more will die before we are done. What of it? This is war, men die in war, that is as it should be. As it has always been from Westeros to the deepest reaches of the east and lands beyond. War never changes."

"You are a women, my lady," the Greatjon rumbled in his deep voice. "Women do not understand these things."

"You are the gentle sec," said Lord Karstark, with the lines of grief fresh on his face. "A man has a need for vengeance."

"Give me Cersei Lannister, Lord Karstark, and you would see how _gentle_ a women can be," Catelyn replied. "Perhaps I do not understand tactics and strategy... but I understand futility. We went to war when Lannister armies were ravaging the Riverlands, and Ned was imprisoned, falsely accused of treason. We fought to defend ourselves, and to win my lord's freedom."

"Well, the one is done, and the other forever beyond out reach. I will mourn for Ned until the end of my days, but I must think of the living. I want my daughters back, and the queen holds the still. If I must trade our four Lannisters for their two Starks, I will call that a bargain and thank the gods. I want you safe, Robb, ruling at Winterfell from your father's seat. I want you to live your life, to kiss a girl and wed a women and father a son. I want to write an end to this. I want to go home, my lords, and weep for my husband."

The hall was very quiet when Catelyn finished speaking.

"Peace," said her uncle Brynded, "Peace is sweat, my lady... but on what terms? It is no good hammering your sword into a plowshare if you must forge it again on the morrow."

"What did my Torrhen die for, if I am to return to Karhold with nothing but his bones? asked Rickard Karstark. His son Eddard looking grim at the mention of his brothers remains.

"Aye," said Lord Bracken. "Gregor Clegane laid waste to my fields, slaughters my smallfolk, and left Stone Hedge a smoking ruin. Am I now to bend the knee to the ones who sent him? What have we fought for, if we are to pull all back as it was before?"

Lord Blackwood agreed, to everyone's surprise. Willam thought him the more agreeable of the two bickering nobles. "And if we do make peace with King Joffrey, are we not then traitors to King Renly? What if the stag should prevail against the lion, where would that leave us?"

"Whatever you may decide for yourselves, I shall never call a Lannister my king," declared Marq Piper.

"Nor I" yelled the little Darry boy. "I never will!"

Again the shouting began and Willam sighed, fearful that he'd die of old age before anything was decided. Truely this reminded him of home, small wonder he refused to stay put there. "The only king the Sunset Islands know is the King of Winter," he declared loudly. "and to my dismay we seem to be lacking such a man!"

The greatjon smiled at that, he was up to something. Willam suddenly found himself greatly concerned... the gaint of a man was about to do something and he clearly expected Willan's support in it. Willam had gained a lot of that, respect, ever since his actions in the Whispering Woods and the Battle of the Camps that followed; they'd hailed him as the Black Wolf.

"MY LORDS!" the Greatjon shouted, his voice boomed off the rafters. "Here is what I say to these two kings!" He spat. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither/ Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong. The others take the Lannisters too, I've had a bellyful of them." Willam knew now what the man was doing as he reached back over his shoulder and drew an immense two-handed greatsword. "Why shouldn't we rule over ourselves again? It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!" He pointed at Robb with the blade. " _There_ sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, m'lords," he thundered. "The King in the North!"

And he knelt, and laid his sword at Robb's feet.

"I'll have peace on those terms," Lord Karstark said. "They can keep their red castle and their iron chair as well." He eased his longsword from its scabbard. "The King in the North!" he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon.

Willam stood with a smile gracing his lips. "For thousands of years my family has remained Princes of the Sunset Islands, we have fought more than once to maintain our allegiance to the Kingdom of Winter, never forgetting our loyalty or where we came from even in the face of those that questioned the wisdom of swearing to kings that likely thought us dead." Willam drew his longsword from it's scabbard and took a knee, placing his sword at Robb's feet alongside the others. "If this is the will of the North, then know that my family - our family - will stand with you Robb Stark. The King of Winter!"

Maege Mormont stood. "The King of Winter!" she declared, and laid her spiked mace beside the swords at her kings feet. And the Riverlords were rising too, Blackwood and Bracken and Mallister, houses who had never been ruled from Winterfell, yet Willam saw them rise and draw their blades, bending their knees and shouting the old words that had not been heard in the realm for more than three hundred years, since Aegon the Dragon had come to make the Seven Kingdoms one... yet now were heard again, ringing from the timbers of Riverrun's great hall. The story of King Tristifer IV Mudd, also known as the Hammer of Justice, came to mind. A shiver went down Willam's spine as Greywind howled and the hall erupted in a chorus of "the King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

* * *

Ghost howled, snapping his master out of a trance. Cregan eyed the wolf curiously for a moment.

"I cant do this." Jon sighed, looking defeated.

"Then your not trying hard enough," Cregan replied with a stern look. "remember what I told you. Don't concern yourself with the how or why of the thing, simply relax and the rest will come naturally with time. The gods, in their infinite wisdom, sent you this gift for a reason. It is as much as part of you the blood that flows in your veins lad."

Jon stared at Ghost, narrowing his eyes and trying to concentrate.

"No." Cregan slapped the boy over the back of the head. "Don't strain yourself. Just. Relax."

Jon sighed, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. Cregan continued talking.

"Wolves are harder than most skins; one has to forge a lasting bond. A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man can truly tame a wolf." He explained, standing behind Jon who had knelt down in front of Ghost. "I cant say if a direwolf would be a greater challenge, one would assume so, the beast being above it's smaller kin. Starks are naturally strong however and how you found Ghost I'd be willing to bet was no mere coincidence."

Jon grunted in frustration, unable to warg into the wolf.

"Willam hasn't helped matters."

"What dose that mean?" Jon asked, curious.

"You recall when the wolves almost ate that dwarf?"

Jon nodded. "Tyrion."

"Aye, well it was Willam who calmed them."

"And," Jon hesitated, not wanting to sound foolish. "they bounded with him?"

Cregan shook his head slowly. "Not quite, it was only a short connection and not enough to form a solid bound. Any skin is generally harder to bound with when it's felt the mind of another however, as I said, Willam has not helped you with his actions. Ghost here is... more experienced... lets say."

"Is your hole family wargs?" Jon asked, remaining at eye level with Ghost. The wolf stood as if listening to the conversation.

"Aye," Cregan said. "to varying degrees. Some master it easier than others."

"Why tell me this?"

Cregan raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Wargs are not exactly common pla-"

"Where I come from Snow," Cregan interrupted with a smile. "being a warg is no different than deciding to use an axe over a sword. It's bloody useful in war too, your smart enough to know how useful it would be to have eyes on your enemy at all times. Nobody sneaks up on an army using wargs to scout the skies Snow."

"Must you call me that?" Jon lowering his head.

"Snow?" Cregan laughed the word out. "Do you know what they say of bastards where I come from, Snow?"

Jon said nothing.

"A bastard to bury." Cregan said coldly, pausing until Jon looked up at him. "It means that it's better to have a bastard son, encase the winter steals your other sons, for bastard children are said to grow faster and winter is a harsh bitch. If she were to steal your true children the bastard may be there to bury the dead and continue your line. More than a few families have been saved by having an extra son laying around. Cruel as it may sound to an outsider."

"A backup..."

"Aye." Cregan smiled. "Winter is Coming, and none of us are truly prepared for her."

Jon sighed at that. "How long it it take Prince Willam?"

"He's an amateur at best, never stayed in one place long enough to learn how."

"And your other siblings?"

Cregan hesitated at that. "My brothers and I took to it like fish to water, back home being a warg is a sign of devotion to the gods. My sister-"

Jon interrupted. "You never mentioned having a sister."

"Lyarra." Cregan spoke her name with a grin, and a hint of sorrow. "She has a new family now, we don't speak of her often."

"She got married?"

Cregan laughed. "In a sense I suppose she did, aye."

"Prince Cregan." A man entered the room and announced his presence, using the Prince title as Willam had bid them, not a title Cregan owned nor desired.

"What is it?" Cregan replied, trying his best to ignore the title. No doubt Willam knew how much it would annoy him.

"We're here," the man said. "you asked to be informed..."

Cregan nodded and waved his hand to dismiss the man.

"How long will we stay?" Jon asked, having gotten to his feet.

"The captain says we need to restock, shouldn't take long." It had been smooth sailing thus far, passing by Braavos and sailing directing for the free city of Lorath, by what the captain had claimed it was by far the poorest and most isolated of the nine free cities. Not that it mattered, they were not here for gold or trinkets. The pair made their way onto the deck of the ship with the hope of standing on solid ground for awhile once they docked, more Jon than anyone, the younger bastard was still getting his sea legs. Ghost was faring no better, the wolf had remained below decks for most of the trip.

Something was odd as they approached the docks. "Is it always like this?" Cregan asked, curious.

The crewman standing beside Cregan shook his head. "Somethings got these bastards afraid." What seemed to be an entire fleet of fishing vessels was leaving the city docks in a hurry, only a few larger and more war worthy vessels staying behind; although a few of those seemed to be fleeing too. "I have a bad feeling about this..." The crewman muttered to himself.

Cregan grunted as the ships captain stormed down onto the deck. "Prince Cregan." he spoke with some great concern.

"What is this?" Cregan pointed at the fleeing fishermen. "War?"

"I've not a clue." The captain said as he paused to think. "They are mobilizing for something, clearly. I cant imagine who Lorath would be at war with, my prince, they are merchants and fishermen. The weakest of the nine cities... they couldn't-"

"Then perhaps another is attacking them?" Jon stepped in.

"Aye," The captain seemed to think it possible. "could be the case. We should take what we need and leave... quickly."

They docked shortly afterwards, those citizens that had not already left now flocked to the newest arrivals and practically begged for safe transport out of the city. The crew members drew their steel to keep the crowd at bay, but they quickly dispersed when Ghost made his way onto the deck and stood next to Jon and Cregan. "My prince!" The captain called after the pair as they began walking away from the ship. "It's not safe to wander. We cant linger here!"

"I'll return in good time captain," Cregan replied with a blank expression on his face. "I trust you'll to be here when we return." It wasn't a question, the ship wouldn't leave without them, but Cregan was curious and quite frankly he doubted anyone would be stupid enough to attack two armed men and a very large and hungry wolf. They made their way into the streets of the city.

A local turned a corner with some speed, cursing as he bumping into a wall of white fur that growled in response to the assault. "Arrhhh!" The man screamed and crawled backwards, dropping the food and other supplies he was carrying. Not his either by the looks of it... the man was obviously using the chaos of things to grab whatever was being left behind.

"You." Cregan growled. "What's going on here? Why is the fleet leaving?!"

The man stared wide eyed at the wolf.

Cregan rolled his eyes and looked to Ghost. "Eat him."

"NO!" The man cried, wetting his leggings as the wolf snapped it's jaws.

"Then answer the question..."

"Ibbenese sods got themselves butchered!" The man cried, he wasn't a local it seemed, perhaps a trader or sell sword in hire to protect fishing or merchant vessels from pirates. The man was clearly not good at his job. "Somebody sailed up and fucked em good! I don't waNT TA DIE!" His voice broke towards the end, crying in a puddle of piss and fear.

"Get up you fool." Cregan sighed. The man got up slowly.

"Y- You'll let me go?"

"Ibben has lost a war?"

The man didn't hesitated to answer. "Lost and slaughtered as I heard it, be coming here next and I don't get paid to fight wars!"

"Well this complicates things." Cregan thought as he grabbed the pissed stained man by his collar. "How dose Lorath know these people are coming here next?!"

"E- e- envoys!" The man stuttered. "They sent envoys! I don't know more, I swear!"

Cregan dropped the man. "Get out of my sight."

Ghost lunched at him as he bolted, leaving his ill-gotten goods behind in the street. "A hostile fleet between us and-"

"-wherever we're going. Aye." Cregan sighed and looked up at a large structure that overlooked the rest of the city. "Take your wolf back to the ship, do not leave without me unless you deem it entirely necessary. Unlike my brother, I have no intention of being stuck so far from home."

Jon laid a hand on Ghost as the beast walked up beside him. "Where are you going?"

"To find some answers."

"I should come with you." Jon was determined, not liking the idea of leaving to the relative safety of the ship while others put themselves at risk.

"No." Cregan shot the boy down quickly. "Return to the ship. This will not take long, practice with the wolf while I'm away lad."

Ghost however was having none of such talk. He bolted past them both without so much as a word... if wolves could speak that is.

"Ghost!" Jon called after the beast.

"No use lad." Cregan sighed. "Come, we should follow him."

It wasn't long before Ghost stopped dead in his tracks outside the large gateway that lead into the palace. Conveniently exactly where Cregan had been planning on heading, like so many things in his life he knew better than to trust such things as mere luck. He had no luck. The gods were screwing with him again. The practical sprint here was uneventful, nobody in their right mind dare to stand between the bear-sized wolf nor it's armed companions. Inside the great hall, behind closed doors, voices could be heard.

"-DARE YOU!?" They didn't seem happy. Ghost pawed at the wooden door and Cregan pushed it open for the wolf, whom dashed inside to the terror of those gathered there.

"GUARDS!" One of the men screamed, high pitched and girlish.

Ghost ignored them. He headed towards the center of the room where three figures stood, clearly the cause of whatever disagreement had been taking place in the room before, clad in dark green longcoats sewn together in such a way as to make them look like dress's of leaves and green cloaks with red cloak-clasps in the shape of leaves. Their belts were- "Lya." Cregan muttered the word as he approached. He knew those cloths, the figure turned to respond, a smile on her face. He knew that face. "Sister?"

Her green eyes sparkled, the grin on her face growing larger. She laid on a hand on Ghost. "Hello brother. We've been expecting you."


	13. Chapter 13: Diplomacy

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: Another chapter focusing entirely on the situation in the East, in fact we'll be spending a few chapters focusing on the situation around Ibben since we all know what happens in Westeros and Willam is only one man unable to change a great deal. We'll only see highlights from Willam. WeylandCorp 4: This chapter should in theory answer your review, the Free Citites would indeed band together if Rodrik pushed further West but he doesn't intend to do that, although he's confident the Winter Fleet could crush any fleet the Free Cities could raise... I have yet to detail just _how_ advanced the fleet is. The Winter Fleet is death incarnate. :P

* * *

 **Chapter 13: Diplomacy**

"Hello brother." Lyarra smiled, casually running her fingers through Ghosts white fur and ignoring the whispering of the gathered nobles in the room. "We've been expecting you, although it seems I was mistaken in hoping the your companion would be Willam. The gods would not show me his face. Is he..."

"Alive," Cregan answered quickly. "last time I saw him at least."

Lyarra nodded. "Then who is this?"

Jon hesitated, until Cregan practically pushed him forward. "This is Jon Snow, second eldest son of the Lord of Winterfell."

"Princess." Jon lowered his head and Lyarra spat out some short laughter in response. It had been awhile since anyone bothered to use that title for her, she'd long ago forsworn from such things when she joined the order. She was of the gods, the gods had no use for a princess, but the boy could be forgiven for his ignorance.

"It's quite the companion you've got here Jon Snow."

"Thank you?" Cregan replied, confused at the sudden praise. Why did this feel like a tra-

"I was talking about the wolf." Lyarra smirked.

Cregan narrowed his eyes and Jon fought back a smirk of his own.

"Lady Stark!" A frustrated voice shouted from the elevated stands.

"Yes?" Lyarra turned, tilting her head ever so slightly in reply. "I trust you've decided your fate, gentlemen?"

The room was silent for a moment, the men whom Cregan could only assumed represented the ruling class of Lorath whispered among themselves and offered only the odd glace at Cregan and his sister. They were scared, that much was clear. "We have." The man replied. "Lorath accepts your... generous offer. Lady Stark."

Lyarra's normally warm smile turned cold. "My brother will be glad to hear it, and we trust this will be the start of a truly lucrative friendship."

"Please send His Grace our regards." A second man spoke, seeming to choke on the words.

"I'll be certain to do just that, magister."

"What _is_ this Lya?" Cregan spoke in a hushed voice, clasping his sister on the shoulder as he did.

"This is diplomacy my dear brother."

"Since when did your new family handle such things?"

Lyarra winked at Jon. "Since it was asked of us, the gods do not make requests lightly."

"The gods permitted this?!" Cregan almost choked on the words, shocked that the gods were involving themselves in the ambition of mere mortals. They were never so direct, present enough, but never so open. "Something is wrong, isn't it?"

Lyarra's smile died. "That is a topic for another time, in a far more private setting." She motioned towards the doors as her fellows shifted into ravens and flew out in a puff of black vapors and feathers, leaving the bastard Jon Snow wide-eyed and wordless. Lyarra shook her head slightly as she looked at the young son of Winterfell. "Shall we?"

"Aye," Cregan replied. "the sooner we return home the better."

Lyarra's smile returned as mischievous as ever. She said nothing, guiding the two bastards out of the great camber and leaving the concerned magisters to think on their newest agreement. Rodrik would be pleased, sacking Lorath would've wasted precious time and risked starting a conflict with the other Free Cities that they had no interest in. They walked back to the ship, Lyarra wishing to catch up with her favorite bastard brother since she was unable to swift into a crow large enough to carry them back to Ibben. That was a joke.

"Ask and get it over with." Cregan growled as they walked, the streets were calmer than before.

Lyarra maintained her grin, something that was making Jon uneasy as the women practically skipped through the street seemingly ignorant of the stares she was receiving from the few locals that hadn't abandoned their homes in the mad rush from before. "Why my dear brother," Lyarra said without ceasing her stride. "are you accusing me of some nefarious intent? I'm shocked, hurt, maybe a little hungry..."

Cregan sighed.

"That last ones not your fault."

Cregan stopped in his tracks, grabbing Jons shoulder to stop him from walking forward. "Just ask."

"I hate this game of emotions that we play." Lyarra pouted, trying to hide her amusement and failing horribly as she burst into a laughter when all she gained was a blank look from Cregan and one of complete confusion from Jon. Ghost tilting his head sideways. "As you wish." Lyarra's face turned blank as if there had never been any emotion there to begin with. "Did you notice anything of the gods? I tried to look for Willam but found nothing, like looking through a dense endless fog."

"I've never been all that connected to them, you know that."

Lyarra sighed. "True, I almost forget your inadequacy..."

Cregan ignored the insult. "Willam mentioned them."

Her emerald eyes lit up at that as her brother continued, Lyarra now paying full attention and no doubt brewing witty insults for later.

"He said it felt empty, and the locals knowledge of the gifts is practically non-existent." Cregan looked to Jon who was listening intently. "I'm teaching this one what little I can, his siblings seemed gifted too according to Will. You should really speak with him, as you said, I am _inadequate_."

"Would that you brought him home as father commanded."

"I couldn't-"

"Always one for excuses, Cregan."

"Father can go get the boy himself!" Cregan growled.

"Fathers dead." Lyarra countered with no emotion.

"I-" Cregan hesitated. "How?"

"It was his time." She shrugged simply, returning to her striding through the streets.

A small part of Cregan had assumed as such, those men inside had called Rodrik 'His Grace' but a larger part simply thought it was a foreigner making a mistake in assuming the conquering force was commanded by their leader. "There is something else," Cregan broke the silence that had gripped the air as his docked ship came into view. "the Kingdom of Winter has fallen. This is the reason Willam sent me, to inform father that we no longer have a king."

Lyarra paused to look for some form of a lie in the bastards eyes, but found nothing, looking up at the sky for a moment before speaking without turning her head away from the clouds. "Ibben is ours, sail east and you'll find it easily enough." With that a cloud of raven feathers and black vapours dissipating around her and Lyarra was gone.

"Fucking showoff." Cregan muttered and stormed towards his ship, turning around to shout at a dazed Jon Snow. "Move it Snow, there's a few days before we reach Ibben, and winter is coming!" Jon snapped out of his thoughts, slowly growing accustom to the weirdness of things as Ghost bounded forward past Cregan and onto the ship.

"How did they do that?" Jon asked, rushing forward to catch up.

"Do what?" Cregan asked, attempting to avoid an explanation.

"She turning _into_ a raven!" Jon practically barked the words at the elder bastard.

"And _you_ can control the mind of a direwolf," Cregan countered. "or at least you'll be able to if you keep up with the practice."

The younger bastard thought in silence as he stepped onto the deck of the ship, the numerous deckhands rushing around to their positions now that the shore party had returned and they would soon be setting sail. "So, she's a warg? Could I learn to do that too?"

"No, that gifts far less common and not something that can be taught by ordinary folk." Cregan answered the boys question bluntly as he entered his cabin and left Jon Snow standing on the deck with a thousand more questions that Cregan really didn't want to answer. What he wanted was a drink, or perhaps a few dozen drinks.

* * *

Rodrik sat on the golden throne that once played host to the godly rumps of the God-Kings of Ib. He learnt forward on the horribly uncomfortable seat in complete silence, listening carefully as his lords began bickering about various topics that they wished to voice, the light from the wall mounted torches shining off the gold lined wall decorations. Those aside the room had been stripped barely, most of the gold and silver taken to be melted down into coins and shared among the nobles with a large portion going towards the reconstruction efforts on the newly conquered land. The wind howled as it entered through the far windows, causing the large Stark banners that flanked the golden throne to flutter lightly in the breeze. Rodrik's mind drifted as he admired the room and thought on if he'd melt the golden throne or not.

"We've received reports that the Ibbenese are regrouping." The voice of Lord Ryder could be heard from the gathered group of lords, all arranged in a neat haft-circle at the foot of the golden thrones steps. Allowing the lords to voice their thoughts was a necessary but often very tiring thing. They enjoyed the sound of their own voices.

Lord Fisher agreed with his fellow noble. "Certainly the recent attacks against the internment camps are evidence enough."

As did Lord Mormont, hardly surprising given the two houses storied friendship. "Agreed, they are on the move."

"This is absurd," the Lord Sunstark voiced his opinion. "we cannot stand by while they amass on our very doorstep."

"The shattered remnants of a barbarian army is not our primary concern here." Another voice spoke, this one foreign from the mouth of the empires ambassador that had been sent with their peoples settlers. Rodrik wished he'd stay with his own people, the man was a nuisance. "How many times must I repeat myself? Prince Rodrik, you must heed my warning. This conflict that has gripped the empire could have dire ramifications."

"Another conflict?" Lord Ryswell laughed. "How is this any different than the others? You easterners are just being paranoid."

A raven flew in through the great door to the notice of none but Rodrik, the bird circling around the rafters of the room as he watched it knowingly. Prince Edric stood beside his twin brother unaware of the newest arrival. He took a step forward to address the lords in his brothers stead, as he was obviously not paying attention.

"Lets keep all this in perspective." Edric's voice rang out and silenced the lords. "If the new conflict does pose a threat to us, what exactly are you proposing that we do?"

"It is simple," the ambassador spoke. "we sail back east where as I have said the empire is already prepared to join forces."

Rodrik heard that and rose from his throne to speak, his attention now away from the raven that sat happily look from it's vantage point on the rafters above. "I will not abandon these new lands nor the settlers that have already begun to arrive without proof of this dire need that you are so adamant about, ambassador. My people have suffered long enough without begin dragged into yet another of the empires petty skirmishes. The gods commanded me here for a reason and I _will_ see it fulfilled."

"The gods is it?" Lord Sunstark shook his head. "I don't believe any gods would be interested in our moral ambitious, my Prince."

The raven dived down from above and landed gracefully on the floor beside the steps of the golden throne, the lords bickering among themselves at Sunstarks outburst and semi-insult towards the gods. Rodrik's attention was once again focused on the raven, knowing full well it was more than a mere bird, the green eyes revealing the truth.

The bird twisted in form, a cloud of feathers and black vapours dissipating around it. Lyarra stood in it's place, smiling as usual. "Yet interested they are, my lord."

"Sister." Rodrik smiled, retaking his seat as the lords began whispering among themselves. "What news?"

"Humanity is in peril, the tides of darkness have come again!" Lyarra spoke dramatically, a little too much so to be taken seriously.

Rodrik smiled at his sisters antics while Edric shook his head, the lords silenced as those that didn't know the women well wondered as to the meaning of her warning.

"Lorath accepts your generous offer, dear brother." She said with a heavily over embellished bow. "And, I found Cregan." The last past caused numerous words to float around the room, the islands having long since passed the bastard and the wayward prince off as dead and buried at sea.

"Are you certain?" Rodrik asked, leaning forward on the throne.

"I spoke to him at length." Lyarra offered no further details, shrugging.

"What of Willam?" Prince Edric asked, concerned. "You didn't mention speaking to him."

"He seemed to have stayed behind in Westeros."

"Willam?" Edric asked with a raised eyebrow. " _Our_ Willam, staying somewhere for a prolonged period of time?"

"Madness." Rodrik was inclined to agree with his twin.

"A women is probably involved." Edric said, looking to his brother.

"Cregan is heading here I assume?" Rodrik asked, ignoring the possible cause of his brothers decision to stay in Westeros.

Lyarra nodded. "On a ship, left the port at Lorath shortly after I."

"And what of Westeros?" Rodrik was curious, the land of his ancestors and his king.

"Real, according to Cregan." Lyarra looked around to study the room and the lords in attendance, everyone of importance by the looks of the banners on the walls and tabards in the crowd. "He also brings news as to the fate of the Kingdom of Winter although I admit I failed to pry for details..."

"The fate?" Lord Fisher had picked up on that, his voice filled with confusion and a hint of concern. His fellow lords quickly picked up on it too, bickering loudly.

"The Kingdom is gone?!"

"We don't know that!"

"My grandfather died for this!"

"What does this mean?!"

Various other cries could be heard as the room threatened to erupt into chaos, the wounds of the last civil war over the the Kingdom of Winters sovereignty were only recently healed and even so the scars remained fresh enough. People had died. Houses were put down. It wasn't something that would be forgotten easily. Rodrik rose from his seat.

"Enough!" He bellowed, silencing the room. "I trust my sisters word but there is no wisdom in rambling predictions when my brother will arrive soon enough to shed light on the matter. The news is dire and our lands have been beset by enough conflict over the issue, but soon my brother will arrive with the answers we all seek."

The lords kept their silence as Rodrik got up off his throne to stand beside his sister. "Lord Mormont."

Mormont stepped forward and bent the knee, a gesture the other lords all took note of. He said nothing and awaited orders eagerly.

"Take as many ships as you wish and patrol the waters west of here for signs of my brothers arrival, escort him to the port and ensure his safety." Rodrik looked down at the knelt lord, his green silk cloak laid out behind him. "Do not sail too far, but I need not tell you how important the information my brother carries is. Bring him home, my lord."

"It will be done." Mormont got back to his feet and stormed out of the room, several Mormont men-at-arms following him out.

It was a meaningless order in truth as the man could not hope to sail too far out as they had no way of knowing what route Cregans ship would be taking. Mormont would fulfill his duty however, using the wargs in his arsenal to scout far greater distances than the eye could see to spot incoming ships before they ever laid eyes on the Mormont sails.

"Lord Mormont will ensure my brothers safe return." Rodrik announced, putting some of the more concerned lords at ease with the promise of their much needed information arriving with an escort, despite the fact that it was an empty gesture. They needed the enforcement. "Unless there is anything else I suggest you all return to your duties and we'll convene tomorrow to discuss the Ibbenese issue, and other matters should my brother arrive in good time. Dismissed."

The lords departed in their usual groups. Fisher walked with a number of minor coastal lordlings with the noticeably missing addition of Mormont colors for obvious reasons, the man was elsewhere, but they'd usually not be far from each other. Ryder kept his distance from Ryswell, a sour cadet relationship if there had ever been one. Sunstark kept his company with his own kinsmen from either his own branch or minor ones from elsewhere that had sprouted over the years. Rodrik honestly couldn't keep track of all the cadet branches of House Stark. Greystark, Sunstark, Seastark, the list of cadet branches went on although few were more than merchant families, the Sunstarks were the largest and held command over the City Watch of Brandon's Landing while the Greystarks acted more often as Captains of the Guard in Winterhold and the Seastarks ran and maintained the largest fleet of fishing vessels on the islands. They each had their own roles to fulfill, but none had their own castle. Prince Edric spoke first as the hall emptied.

"So," he began as the final lord left and the hall fell silent. "the Kingdom of Winter is no more."

"That is what Cregan claimed." Lyarra confirmed once more, she was clearly growing tired of repeating herself.

Edric looked to his brother. "I suppose that makes you a King, Your Grace."

"I suppose." Rodrik weighted the title, and honestly it felt no different than Prince, he thought it would have made a difference given all the fuss kicked up over the title in the past. "Brandon will be thrilled when he returns no doubt, as if the boy didn't already have enough pressure to prove himself to the lords."

"Where _is_ my dear nephew?" Lyarra asked, noticing the young princes absence from the meeting.

"Lord Titan requested aid to handle some matter or another, something about savages and a concern over the safety of his new holdings." Rodrik explained with a blank expression, his twin Edric showing concern for them both. "He volunteered to go in my stead and handle things."

"A dutiful lad." Edric said.

"He'll make a fine king." Rodrik muttered to himself more than anyone else, thinking of how he could get word sent to the Islands for the Shipwrights crown to be sent west to Ibben if Cregan's story was proven true. Away from the questioning eyes of his lords Rodrik had no doubt of his sisters word, she'd never lie about such a thing, the women had a knack for truths and sniffing out liars. It was true that in joining her new family she'd changed a great deal from the shy and docile girl he could remember from his childhood, but she was still his sister and he did trust her words. "What it is, brother?"

Edric had an all too familiar look on his face, one that showed his growing annoyance at waiting for his brother to stop daydreaming in the middle of their conversations. "The attacks on the internment camps, it has me considered. If they were to free the workers..."

"The things were your idea brother," Rodrik snarled like a wolf. "are you saying you were wrong?"

"No." Edric denied firmly. "I stand by my suggestion, the additional workers will prove useful."

"I still feel it would be safer to kill them all."

Edric returned a snarl of his own. "It would be inhumane, brother."

Rodrik scoffed at that, honor would not ensure the safety of his people and now these slave camps added an additional threat within their own walls should the remnants of the locals camped in the mountains happen to free the enslaved workers. "You raised no complaint on the hundred islands, we spared none there."

"That was different, these people were completely hostile and refused to even attempt contact other than at the tip of a spear."

"So we killed them to ensure they'd raise no trouble." Rodrik paused for his twins reaction, gaining a slow nod in agreement. "I say the same is true here, these people may be more talkative than those green-skinned demons but that only makes them a bigger threat if they are not put down."

"And yet you listened to my suggestion."

"And yet I listened to your suggestion." Rodrik agreed, he had done that much. "I agreed that putting them to work would be productive, but if the camps cannot be controlled I will not hesitate to put them all to the sword rather than risk them braking free and causing an uprising. Better they die before allowing that to happen."

"You don't intend to keep your promise to them?" Lyarra added her own voice, grabbing Rodrik's attention.

"If they work as instructed and cause no trouble, then I will keep my promise."

"And what of the eastern camp?" Edric asked.

"The order has already been given," Rodrik explained with a wolfish grin. "they will be dead by sundown. Such is the price paid for their attempted escape when those mountain dwelling bastards tried to free them. Let it be a lesson to the other camps, the price for treason is death, there are no exceptions."

"Rodrik the Ruthless." Lyarra smirked, using the nickname her brother had gained.

He shook his head at the title. "There is no price too high for the safety of ones people."

"Quoting father now are we?" Edric said, thinking it ironic as he recalled several possible quotes that involved Rodrik's various childhood shenanigans.

Rodrik ignored the obvious trap. "Keep your precious camps in line, brother, and perhaps I will not have to be so ruthless."

"I shall." Edric replied with great confidence, eager to prove his twin wrong.

Lyarra had kept her grin throughout the brothers bickering, perhaps remembering the good old days or perhaps she was simply insane. Her gift, or her cruse dependent on who you asked, had ill effects on ones sanity the more time you spent inside animal form. Usually the order would take children at a young age to teach them proper control, but Lyarra was one-and-ten by the time they'd discovered what her father had been hiding. Years later when they saw her again she was never _quite_ the same.

* * *

Lord Titan was a monstrously tall individual with his family blade 'Titan' strapped to his back looking as daunting as always, the blade itself was tall as an average man and as wide as ones forearm, made of dark tinted steel of various shades that rippled down the blade. Prince Brandon was glad the man was on his side and not the enemy, whoever their next enemy happened to be, any sane person would flee in the opposite direction rather than fight this mountain of a man. Lord Titan was _not_ a happy man.

"I want their heads." He muttered, sitting on his high chair located inside what was, in theory, once the great hall of whoever ruled here before him.

"It could be a misunderstanding." Brandon offered, trying to play the diplomat as his father had requested.

"Misunderstanding?" Lord Titan spat. "Those bastards slaughtered my outriders and send me their heads in fucking baskets!"

Perhaps misunderstanding was not the right word, Brandon thought, as the heads had been presented clear enough to him in a woven basket damp with blood. "And we will see that justice is done, my lord. My father is not one to let the loss of any of his people go unanswered, however he'd rather not start a war on anyone's terms but our own if it can be helped. You know the laws regarding first contact as well as I."

Titan muttered a few choice curses but knew better than to question Rodrik's orders. Titan banners were hung proudly upon the walls as Brandon and his twenty or so guards were treated to a feast in honor of Rodrik the Conqueror. House Titan had been given the land the locals called New Ibbish, now renamed Titan's Point, and in settling the new land had sent out scouts to map the area and assess threats. Apparently, they had found a threat, evident by only their heads returning home.

"It's those fucking locals." Lord Titan's heir offered his thoughts, warning a nod of approval from his father.

"Perhaps." Brandon took a gulp of his drink, a thick and rather tasteless ale.

"Who else would it be?" Titan asked.

"Who indeed." Brandon countered, in truth they knew little of the land they'd taken and less of it's people and neighbors. "I swear to you, my lord, we will discover those responsible and handle the situation. If they are locals then we can hunt them down easily enough."

"And if they are not?" Titan asked, emptying a tankard of his own and crashing it down on the table.

"We'll handle it accordingly, as we do all foreign encounters." Brandon would not go against his fathers desires in this, they had their hands full handling the remnants of Ibben without taking on a secondary war because somebody thought it was a good idea to anger the new neighbors. If there was need of a second conflict, it would be on Stark terms.

"I'm riding out in the morning to trace my scouts footsteps."

"I-" Brandon failed to understand why his father placed so much trust in this lord, he was brash and inpatient. "We should wait and-"

Titan slammed his fist into the table, spilling his newly filled tankard over the table and causing Brandon's guard to motion towards their hilts. "I am done waiting, your father promised me action, boy!" Brandon choked on that word, boy, as if he was a child playing a game.

He swallowed the insult, tasting far worse than the ale he'd been served. "Is that an order I just heard, Lord Titan?"

Titan didn't so much as blink at the obvious threat, staring at the young Stark with empty eyes as every man in the room moved uneasily, ready to draw steel and cut the tension in the room. "Ha!" Titan bellowed. "Will you ride with us or not, Stark?"

Stark. A step up from boy it seemed and Brandon would accept it for what it was, more respect than he'd held before. "Aye," Brandon smirked, raising his tankard of ale up in the process. "I'll ride." He drank deeply, oddly enough it tasted better the second time around. Tomorrow he would ride out and show Titan he was no _boy_ to be mocked so.


	14. Chapter 14: Shields of Winter

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Notes: I've made my stories GoT/Asoiaf Crossovers in order to reach both categories and by extension a larger audience, we'll see what effect it has, if any. Meanwhile our two bastards sail into the Port of Ibben and lay eyes on the Winter Fleet, but not all of it, there are naturally other sections of the fleet in difference ports elsewhere on Ibben like at Titan's Point where Brandon no doubt sailed with a number of ships, not to mention Lord Titan's ships that he originally landed with etc.

Reviews: Lyarra and her order doesn't listen to anyone but the gods and would see 'assassination' of some king as below them unless that king happened to be actively hurting the gods, nothing in any of my stories is ever 'push button to win' levels of OP. Who would win a duel with Robb vs Rodrik? Rodrik. Easily. Robb becomes a skilled commander thanks largely to his advisers while Rodrik is a veteran of leading men and is better than Willam with a blade. It would be the same outcome as Jaime vs Robb. Lyarra's green eyes are the side-effect of whatever ritual the order does when they take away gifted children into the forest, haven't made the details up yet, but we'll learn them.

* * *

 **Chapter 14:** **Shields of Winter**

Jon stood wide-eyed at the sight of well over a hundred ships anchored in the bay as the docks were seemingly full and bursting with activity. The first thing he noted was the sails, he recognized some of the sigils, the bear of Mormont and more importantly the direwolf of Stark standing out prominently on the sails of ships larger than anything White Harbor had boasted. The smallest and most numerous vessels had two square rigged masts and were impressive enough on their own but what stood out was the monster in the heart of the anchored fleet, a ship with three masts and unlike the smaller vessels it boasted not two but _three_ decks. Jon stared in awe at the sight as their ship, pathetic by comparison, pulled into the Port of Ibben. "The Shipright." Cregan said, having walked up beside Jon whom was still looking out at the anchored fleet.

Jon practically jumped out of his skin as the fellow bastard land a hand on his shoulder. "What?"

"The huge bastard in the center." Cregan explained with a grin, motioning out at the largest ship in the fleet. "He's called the Shipwright."

"He?" Jon raised an eyebrow.

"Don't name your ships back home?"

"We do." Jon paused, he knew little and less of ships. "I- I think we do."

"Admittedly, most of them have feminine names." Cregan shrugged. "That handsome bastard however is named after our founder, Brandon the Shipwright. Flagship and Father to the Winter Fleet." The pride in Cregan's voice was clear enough, he'd always liked the sea and his families fleet was the envy of those that saw it, although in truth it's design and construction was aided greatly by supplies and knowledge from the empire. It had taken time but over the years the fleet grew stronger and more refined as the old was discarded and replaced by the new. The fleet numbered at around two hundred during times of peace, not counting merchant and fishing vessels that could be called into service nor the number of new vessels that could be constructed for war given enough time and warning. Cregan had no doubt that at least a portion of the fleet had remained at home too encase any civil strife happened to arise on the Islands. One of his brothers, he knew, would be there to keep order.

"The double-decks are called Snows, the largest of the breed." Cregan began to explain, thinking it best that Jon understand some of the basics concerning the fleet. "The sails and rigging on the main mast of a snow are exactly similar to those on the Shipwright; only that there is a small mast behind the mainmast of the former."

Jon kept a blank expression as the elder bastard continued to speak, most of the information beyond him.

"The Shipwright is a class of ship we've named wolf-of-war, or wow for short."

"And you've how many of those?" Jon asked, snapping himself out his his trace as the crew of their ship all did the same and prepared to dock.

"Shipwrights one of a kind." Cregan replied, turning his gaze away as their ship pulled up to the docks.

The docks were separated into groups that clearly represented the dominant naval strength of the Winter Fleet, those of Mormont and Flint being overshadowed by the banners of Fisher and the numerous Starks. Jon now stood on the pier taking in the sights as their ships crew disembarked, eager to see the sights for themselves.

"House Seastark," Cregan began to explain as he noticed Jon's confused expression at the various differences between the Stark banners that were flying proudly above the docked ships. "a chained anchor inside a black direwolves head on a field of white. The black sun in splendour on white is House Sunstark and the grey wolf rampant on white is the Greystarks. And lastly we've the running grey direwolf on an ice-white field, the ruling House of Stark, but you knew that already."

"The Greystarks died out a thousand years ago." Jon muttered, Ghost sitting patiently beside him gaining more than a few curious looks from passersby. Animals were hardly a rare sight, countless birds of various sizes could be seen flying above and resting on the ship masts, but none had been a direwolf in the flesh before today. "They sided with the Boltons in a rebellion and were wiped out as punishment."

"You best keep that little fact to yourself lad," Cregan warned sternly. "the Greystarks are not the strongest cadet branch and would happily cut you down to defend their honor and more important their reputation. Although they would hesitated to strike down kin assuming they believe own little tale, but Ghost ought to convince them."

"And the others?" Jon asked as the pair began walking slowly down the pier.

"Seastark is arguably the strongest, controlling the second largest section of the fleet besides the Starks themselves, they pride family above all else so the moment we announce you as Eddard Stark's son any ill-thoughts they may harbor against you will vanish with the tide."

"And the Sunstarks?"

Cregan sighed. "Sunstarks a cold one, lost his faith in the gods after last winter nearly wiped out his line. It's best you avoid him."

A large column of men paraded down the cobbled street that lead from the city to the docks, flying the banner of Stark at it's head with the rampant common grey wolf of Greystark flying proudly beside the direwolf of their founders. Shouts of "make way for the prince" could be heard, causing Cregan to halt and prepare himself for what would no doubt be numerous questions, the Mormont escorts from before meant Rodrik would no doubt be aware of his arrival.

At a glance a stranger would no doubt have failed to tell the difference, it was not Rodrik but his twin that had come to greet the wandering bastards. "Cregan!" Prince Edric shouted as he closed the gap between them, guards flanking him like shadows, two grey wolves following their masters and taking particular interest in Ghost whom had moved forward to inspect his smaller grey cousins. Edric pulled his brother in for a hug, exclaiming "by the gods it is you," as he pulled away to get a better look at his wayward brother.

"Edric." Cregan smiled, his relationship with his brothers had always been a warm one. Bastards were hardly looked down upon as much as he'd experienced back in Westeros, a bastard to bury, as they said. His father had treated him well even if he was the 'spare' son and acted as nothing but Willam's personal bodyguard.

"Snow." A man with the classic Stark features offered his hand. He was barely a few years older than Jon by the looks of him, with a well groomed looking grey wolf sitting vigilantly beside him as the two other wolves began mock fighting with Ghost. The smaller wolves looked no different than those that inhabited the Wolfswood back home.

"Greystark." Cregan took the mans hand.

"Is that what I think it is?" Greystark raised an eyebrow at the picture before him, one very large wolf playing roughly with two smaller wolves in the middle of a cobbled street, the other guards with smiles on their faces as the wolves enjoyed themselves. Ghost clearly had the upper paw. The Islands had plenty of common wolves and taming such a beast was a Greystark coming-of-age tradition, but none were so large as Ghost, a direwolf had not been seen in the history of the islands.

"It is. And this is Jon Snow." At the mention of his name, Jon stepped forward and called Ghost to his side.

"My lord." Jon lowered his head.

Greystark smirked. "I'm no lord."

"Jon," Cregan began. "this is Ethan Greystark, eldest son to Lord Greystark and second in command of the Greyguard."

"An honor." Ethan bowed politely and the wolf beside him lowered it's head to mimic his masters show of respect.

"Jon here is the second eldest son of Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell."

At that Ethan blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Jon shifted uncomfortably, unused to the attention as the eyes of everyone that heard the words 'Son of' and 'Winterfell' seemed to glue themselves onto him.

"An even greater honor then, it seems. Lyarra failed to mention the boy." Edric broke the silence and lightly punched Ethan in the shoulder to cease his staring, much to the amusement of the other grey-cloaked guards present. "If there is nothing else we should go see Rodrik, he and the lords have numerous tiring questions for you brother."

It was a short ways up the cobbled streets to the large palace Rodrik was using as his seat. Entering, the guards bowed their heads as they passed before returning to hushed whispers. The ceiling was high, the dais big enough that a good thousand could be feasted on the high table in comfort, the banners of various houses hung proudly on the walls with the various Stark colors closest to the great golden throne that Rodrik sat on, his lords gathered around the steps to the uncomfortably looking chair, Lyarra getting up from her seat on the steps as she moved to lean in and whispered something in Rodrik's ear that caused him to grin widely.

"Cregan!" He beamed from atop his seat and moved to embrace his bastard brother.

"Rodrik." Cregan replied, trying to ignore the impatient look of the gathered lords. The only faces seemingly happy to see him were those of Stark relation, kin returning from the dead was only a good thing to any Stark regardless of what other news they brought. "I heard about father..."

Rodrik sighed. "He left sometime after you and Will, made me promise I'd find you both and bring you home."

Cregan shook with head, a thin smile gracing his lips at memory of his father. "He never was one for easy tasks."

"No," Rodrik replied with a sigh. "he wasn't. Lyarra claimed Willam was alive?"

"Last I saw him."

"Good." Rodrik gave a nod before return to his golden seat and putting on his princely voice as opposed to his brotherly one. "Lyarra claims you bring news as to the fate of the Kingdom of Winter, brother, we are all anxious to hear it. What has befallen our kingdom?"

Cregan cleared his throat and explained the details from what Willam had told him, having not read any of the books himself while at Winterfell, but before he departed Willam gifted him with several copies that covered the recent and distant histories of Westeros and it's houses. "Will meant these as a gift for father," Cregan explained with no small hint of sorrow. "they _were_ always the readers in the family. Perhaps if the fool spent more time with his sword and less with paper..."

Edric could be seen smiling in the crowd of gathered nobles, flanked by the Greyguard and numerous wolves.

"So," Rodrik closed shut one of the old books his bastard brother had handed him. "the Kings of Winter are no more." The look on Prince Rodrik's face was one of concern as the gathered nobles began bickering among themselves. The question of what this meant for the islands was on everyone's mind, while the various cadet Starks shot warning looks towards those more ambitious lords in the room. They would be damned if anyone but a Stark rose to the title of King.

It was Lord Fisher that stepped forward first. "My lords!"

The bickering softened as Fisher grabbed their attentions, the man commanded a sizable portion of the fleet and with that came a natural respect or at the very least, authority. "We've been sworn to absent kings all our lives, rarely complaining, we remembered where we came from and kept our oaths to the Starks." He paused for effect. "To the _Starks_ , my lords, I for one intend to keep my oath the same as it's been since the Shipwright founded the islands."

"Aye." Lord Ryder stepped forward. "We swore to the Kings of Winter and kept that oath, but with them gone the crown by law passes to the next of kin." He drew his sword and bent the knee, keeping his head held high as he spoke. "Rodrik's kin, the blood of King Brandon and those that stayed behind in Westeros. The King of Winter!"

Cregan stepped forward and knelt beside Ryder. "The King of Winter!"

Fisher and Mormont knelt, followed by Greystark, the other cadet branches and eventually every noble in attendance as the words "King of Winter" filled the air as the wolves howled in agreement. Jon Snow knelt among the nobles, out of a sense of respect if nothing else, refusing to kneel wouldn't have gotten him far in way of making friends.

Rodrik noticed the young bastard knelt, his snow white direwolf sat vigilantly at his side staring at him with blood red eyes. "Your continued loyalty is enough to felt my frozen heart." Rodrik jested, holding a hand over his heart dramatically as he slowly walked towards the direwolf as the nobles responded with laughter. "I count you all as family, my lords, but it seems there is one here that I do not know by name."

Jon Snow was frozen at that, lost for words entirely, a king standing in front of him seemingly unaware or uncaring of Ghosts warning growl.

It was Cregan who spoke, getting up with his knee and moving beside him. "This is Jon Snow." Jon remained knelt and silent as Cregan spoke. "Second eldest son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Another gift from Willam, in a manner of speaking, he thought it best Winterfell have a voice. In the event that we actually found you... that is..."

"Jon Snow." Rodrik weighed the name. "Rise," he turned his head to the knelt nobles. "all of you. Your kin through blood or battle, and you've spend enough time on your knees for one lifetime I think. My family has gone a few thousand years without people kneeling and I don't see a cause to start it now. King or no."

The lords began bickering once more as they rose to their feet, mainly concerning Jon and Winterfell. "Your Grace," Lord Ryder spoke. "if the Starks of Winterfell stand then... would they not inherit the crown first?" Ryder looked concerned, the thought was on everyone's mind but few dared speak it. Ryder was a loyal one however and sometimes loyalty meant telling hard truths. "Forgive me, but I-"

Rodrik held his hand up. "There is nothing to forgive, my lord."

"Y- Your Grace?" Jon summoned the courage to speak, straightening his back in an attempt to seem taller.

Rodrik raised an eyebrow and waited for the bastards words.

"As I trust Cregan will tell you, my family bent the knee to House Targaryen and their dragons some three hundred years ago." Jon began, hardly news as Cregan had announced as such but failed to go into detail. That could come later. In a less public setting. "As such, Winterfell is sworn to the Iron Throne. We forsook our crown..."

"We have our _own_ crown, Jon Snow." Rodrik explained with a grin as Ghost had seemingly calmed.

"The boys words are enough to settle that matter, no?" Cregan asked. "I saw the King of Westeros with my own eyes, then saw the Lord of Winterfell bend the knee and embrace him as a brother. Prince Willam and I found no cause to doubt the history told to us by Lord Stark."

Ryder gave a nod in agreement. "I believe that settles it. There can be no doubt, Your Grace."

"The gods will it." Lyarra gave a nod, her face expressionless as her eyes fell on Jon and remained there for an uncomfortable time as Rodrik ordered a feast prepared and the gathered lords moved to their separate corners as the servants prepared the tables, drink, food and other such necessities. With the hour the table was set with strong ale, bread and meats. Rodrik sat the the end closest to the throne, Edric to his right and Lyarra to his left. The air filled with the sounds of merriment as the nobles celebrated.

Jon sat beside Cregan and Ethan Greystark, having been allowed the honor of sitting at the Stark related end of the table. It was a surprise to Jon as he expected being put aside during such a feast, as Lady Stark would do whenever lords visited Winterfell. "So, Jon." Ethan began, swallowing a mouthful of food and tossing the bone to his wolf that sat beside his chair. "How'd you come across Ghost? We've never seen a direwolf before..."

"Nor had we," Jon explained, putting down his tankard of ale. "his litter is the first seen in the north in a thousand years, as far as we know."

"Litter?" Ethan raised an eyebrow. "You've more of them?"

"Four others." Cregan answered, taking a gulp of his ale.

"A blessing from the gods, to be sure."

"Willam thought it convenient, aye." Cregan said, recalling how Willam had muttered about how unlikely it was that the bitch happened to whelp pups enough for all five Stark children. "He complained that, said if the gods did send them, he'd have liked one too."

Ethan laughed. "Aye, that sounds like Will."

"Sad you didn't come with us now, eh Greystark?"

"I'd likely have drowned with the others." Ethan said without thinking. "Shit, I shouldn't-"

Cregan waved it off. "Not your fault, we'll put it down to the drink."

"Aye," Ethan took another gulp. "the drink."

Jon caught Lyarra staring at him again, still emotionless. "She's staring at me."

"Who?" Cregan asked.

"The Princess."

"She's no Princess, lad."

Jon looked back across the table, Lyarra had ceased looking at him and return to her brothers.

Cregan continued. "She forsook any such title a long time ago, it's just Lyarra now."

Ethan muttered something along the lines of "stare at me" and returned to his cups. Jon found the women curious, and oddly scary, her green eyes setting her apart from the steely grey eyes of her kin. Not to mention the odd mood swings, one moment she'd be skipping through the streets and the next she'd be silently staring into the distance.

"Her eyes." Jon spoke aloud, not meaning to.

"A part of her gift." Cregan explained. "Or her curse, however you wish to look at it."

"She wasn't born with-"

"No." Cregan looked over the table at his sister. "She had the same steely eyes as a child that you or I have, until they found out about her abilities and took her away to the middle of that grim, grey forest. The next time we saw her she boasted those emerald eyes and was... different. It's hard to explain."

"Who _took_ her?" Jon asked, looking over the table also.

"The mossovy, a darn creepy people if you ask me."

"Green skin," Ethan added, now on his fourth or fifth tankard. "took us a good long time to-"

Ethan belched.

"-befriend shem." He slurred the last word.

"They worship the Old Gods." Cregan stated, knifing a piece of meat from his plate. "That's the only reason they didn't ignore or kill our scouts, they knew us, or the gods did. Again it's all quite difficult to explain. Lyarra would do it better." He shoveled piece of meat into his mouth as Ethan smiled to himself.

"I bet she does _lots_ of things better." He said aloud, grinning.

*Thud* Cregan hit him over the head, causing Ethan's tankard to spill over the table.

"Hey!" Ethan growled as the table of lords laughed at his misfortune.

"Something to say Greystark?" Cregan asked mockingly.

"I-"

"Lya!" Cregan called to his sister, gaining her attention and the attention of everyone else at her end of the table. "Ethan has something he wants to tell you!"

Lyarra tilted her head in reply and awaited the boys question.

"I-" Ethan stuttered, wide-eyed, embarrassed and suddenly _very_ sober. He slammed his forehead onto the table with a thud.

The table laughed heartily as Lyarra returned to her food unfazed, Cregan gently patting the young Greystark on the back of his head saying "that's enough ale for you lad" before moving his tankard away and handing it to Jon whom was struggling not to join in on the laughter. The feast went on for some time and Jon found himself answering many numerous questions directed by various sons of lords that Cregan would later claim had been sent to 'befriend the son of winterfell' and 'learn his intentions'. The last Jon saw of Ethan he was passed out and being practically carried from the hall by his fellow Greyguards, an order commanded by House Greystark that Cregan explained as being the equivalent of the kingsguard back in Westeros, only much larger and without the celibacy. Cregan taught Jon the words of House Greystark. "The Shield of Winter."

* * *

The sound of hooves thundered through the trees as Prince Brandon gave chase to his prey, having been hunting those responsible for the death of Lord Titan's scouts for quite some time and finding nothing, until now. The young prince rode atop a white destrier ahead of Lord Titan and a handful of guardsmen that had joined in Brandons chase when one of the locals was spotted fleeing deeper into the trees, and only the guilty flee, a flawed concept perhaps but one Brandon was tired enough to take to heart in his growing boredom. The fleeing man tripped over his own feet and Brandon dismounted, those behind him either doing the same or moving their horses past the prince to cut off the suspects retreat as the man backed up to a nearby tree and began speaking what were no doubt curses in his native tongue.

"Why did you run?!" Brandon demanded, sword draw with steel against the mans throat.

More alleged curses, in the rush to ride out and bring justice to the slain nobody had through to bring a translator. Brandon cursed under his breath.

"Tie him up," He spoke in his most authoritative voice. "we'll question him back behind our walls."

"You heard the prince!" A man with Stark features spoke from atop his horse, a silver clasp in the shape of a rampant wolf holding his grey cloak in place. Osric Greystark, second eldest of Lord Greystark and Prince Brandons childhood friend. The young man also acted as captain of Brandons personal guard.

"Where's Mors?" One of the guards asked Osric whom processed to look around, only now noticing that at least two of the rearguard were missing.

The howl of a wolf gripped everyone's attention, followed by a whimper and then by silence.

Brandon's eyes immediately shot to Osric, atop his horse, wide-eyed and looking physically hurt as he stared blankly in the direction of the cry. "Ric!" Brandon yelled, snapping his friend out of his trance. As Osric turned his head Brandon saw tears threatening to brake Osric's usually stoic nature. "We're under-"

An arrow cut through the air and struck Osric's horse, making the beast rear and throw it's rider to the dirt.

"To arms!" Lord Titan bellowed, pulling his greatsword from the sheath on his back as numerous locals rushed from the trees with cruel weapons, some hanging back with bows firing rather inaccurate shots from a distance. Osric was stuck with one leg under his fallen horse as his fellow Greyguard had rushed to aid him.

"Leave me!" Osric practically screamed as his guardsmen attempted to move the horse. "protect the prince you fools!"

Brandon had been frozen at the sight of his friends cry of agony when the horse fell on his leg with a sickening crunch. _"A cripple."_ He thought, knowing how Osric would despise that life, coupled with the loss of his wolf Brandon could practically feel his friends pain. _"How did this happen?"_ he asked himself as Osric shouted something at his guards, whom processed to rush towards him and leave Osric in the mud. _"This is my fault,"_ He realized. _"I lead us into a trap."_ Cold steel snapped Brandon out of his thoughts as a dagger was pressed against his throat from behind. _"Shit."_ He thought and cursed himself, having forgotten about the savage that was by the tree behind him.

Brandon's eyes darted around the battlefield before him. Lord Titan could be seen cutting down savage after savage practically in haft with his greatsword. Osric was still pinned under his horse, a look of worry on his face, not for himself but for his prince. The few archers in the trees were being easily dealt with by the crossbowmen under Titan's command and the battle seemed won. "Release him!" One of the Greyguard commanded. "Release him and your free to go!"

That was a lie, Brandon knew, hoping that the savage didn't know the same.

In response his captive utter some curses and pushed the steel harder against Brandon's throat, causing a trickle of blood to fall down his neck.

"You've lost!" Lord Titan stormed over to where the greycloaks were standing, swords drawn and bloodied, hesitant to move forward least harm come to their prince. The giant of a man stood with his equally large blade gripped with both hands as crossbowmen flanked him and moved slowly, aiming at the savage, unable to get a clear shot.

The savages eyes darted dark and forth, noting the fallen corpses of his friends before uttering more curses.

Lord Titan was wide-eyed as multiple bolts filled the savage whom went limp and fell to the ground with a thud. _"Was the ground always so close?"_ Brandon thought, failing to realized he'd fallen to his knees. He felt numb as his vision faded, the last thing he saw was the sad angry face of Lord Titan, and in the distance, Osric Greystark was crying.


	15. Chapter 15: Shattered Shields

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Notes: I apologize for the delayed chapter, but alas, I work on my own schedule and nobody else's. I have simply been very busy of late and the writings been slow.

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 **Chapter 15: S** **hattered Shields**

There were storms and then there were storm, waves a thousand foot tall that blocked out the sky and rain that fell so heavy it was enough to knock a man flat on his arse. The roar of the sea whipped at hull and sail and man alike, the direwolf on the sail ripping from it's mast, running away into the dark void of the storm and abandoning the crew to their cold wet fate. "Gods." Willam swore as he watched a crewman flung from the deck as another wave crashed into the side of the ship.

"Prince Willam!" A man cried aloud, his eyes wide, grey and stormy.

"Greystark!" Willam stumbled over to his guard, clasping him on the shoulder.

"The ships lost!" Greystark shouted over the roar of the wind, panic in his voice.

"Aye!" Willam replied in kind. "Tell me something I don't know, Torr!"

Torrhen Greystark chuckled, for the moment forgetting that certain death was around the corner.

"We need to aban-"

One moment they were standing on the deck, the next they were fit by what left like a giant mailed fist, sending them rolling across the deck. Willam heard a faint cry in the wind, one of many as the crew had long since gone into a stance of panic. "Torr?" Willam asked the wind, his vision blurred by the wave and torrential rain.

"Will!" Cregan rushed over his his brother, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him to his feet.

Willam's ears rang, the chatter of his bastard brother slipping from his notice as his eyes laid on the wrathful sea. "Gods..,"

Cregan turned to see what had his brother so afraid. "Shit." He swore as a wave twice the size of the highest mast loomed over them, the seas killing blow, the end of their journey. The wave sucked the ship into itself, crushing the masts and dragging them into the deep where-

"No waves that large." Jaime stated, moving to take another swig from the wine skin.

"Who's telling the story?" Willam snarled, moving the skin away from the lions grasp.

Jaime rolled his eyes. "You are."

Willam handed him the skin through the bars. "Anyway, as I was saying before you rudely interrupted me."

"You sunk like a rock." Jaime interrupted, taking a swig of wine.

"Well," Willam paused. "yes. That's pretty much it actually."

Another swig of wine, or three, between the two and Jaime finally asked the obvious question as he wanted the skin back to Willam. "Why are you here, Stark?"

"Why?" Willam didn't really have a good answer, he'd found himself with wine and a need for somebody to share it with. What lead him to seek out the kingslayer in the cells was anyone's guess. "I honestly couldn't say, perhaps I'm trying to get you drunk and seek information from you?"

"You don't strike me as the type."

"Type for what?" Willam took another gulp, offering it back to Jaime only to have it turned down.

"Intrigue." Jaime explained casually, resting against the damp wall of his cell. "You Starks are all honor."

"Honor is for peace." Willam countered. "In war, you kill your enemies."

" _You_ drink with them."

Willam smirked. "I've never been one for doing the expected."

"Truthfully," Jaime narrowed his eyes. "why come here of all places?"

"Truthfully you say?"

Jaime nodded as if saying truthfully meant telling the truth was suddenly wise. He was a captive though, Willam thought, what harm could the truth do?

"His Grace and I have not been getting along."

"Lovers quarrel?" Jaime smirked.

"Shut it." Willam replied. "He married some Westerling girl, did you know?"

Jaime looked around his cell as if to make a point.

"Right, stupid question." Willam noted, even if he had heard he'd likely say nothing and let him keep talking in the hopes that his captor would let something slip. "He came back from the Crag with some westerland girl on his arm." Willam look another swig. "Dishonored her, he said. Had no choice, he said. Foolish and careless is what I said."

Jaime remained silent as Willam expected him to, letting his captor rant.

"A ruler should always put the needs of his people ahead of his own." Willam spoke in his most lordly sounding tone. "My father would always say that, a lord can afford the occasional selfish desire, but a king must always put the needs of his kingdom first. His Grace didn't take too kindly to my view."

Jaime remained silent.

"I know what your doing." Willam shook the wine skin at the captive lions cell. "Hoping I'll share some great secret in a drunken haze."

Jaimes flash of a smirk betrayed enough.

"A new topic!" Willam declared loudly.

"As if I have a choice." Jaime muttered.

Willam shoved the wine through the bars. "Shut up and drink, Lannister."

Jaime complied, snatching the wine from the drunk wolf prince.

"Your sister." Willam narrowed his eyes, focusing on the lions reaction.

He betrayed nothing. "What of her?"

"Stannis claims you two..." Willam paused to think on how best to say it, deciding on showing Jaime with some crude hand motions.

"Your a strange one, Stark."

"Says the man fucking his sister."

"Lies." Jaime spat. "Nothing but convenient lies that just happen to make Stannis king."

"Perhaps." Willam shrugged.

Jaime looked puzzled. "You don't care?"

"It's none of my business, really."

"You joined this war."

"That I did." Willam nodded.

"You joined rebels."

Willam shook his head. "I joined family, just as you have done. The victor will decide who was right and who was wrong."

A moment of silence passed before Jaime offered the wine back. "He cant win."

"Who?" Willam went to drink only to find the skin empty.

"Your king, he cannot win this."

"Wines gone." Willam cursed under his breath. "Why is the wine always gone?"

"You know it's the truth."

Willam snapped his head to attention, eyeing the caged lion. "I know."

Jaime seemed taken back by that. "Not the response I was expecting."

"The truth hurts." Willam shrugged. "I am not so blind as to see it however, winning every battle but losing the war. If we were to pull back to Moat-"

"You could change sides." Jaime suggested. "My sister would need a new Warden of the North."

"I'm no traitor, Ser Jaime."

"You said it yourself." Jaime moved closer to the bars. "There is no hope for-"

"There is always hope." Willam snarled, eyeing the lion closely.

Jaime sighed. "A fools hope."

Willam smirked. "Is there any other kind?"

A moment of silence passed between the lion and wolf as the sound of footsteps echoed from down the dark damp hallway of the dungeons, nobody was supposed to be here, down the in the dark Willam had left Edwyn outside to guard the entrance and ensure he could speak to the lion without interruption. Hard to find good help, it seemed.

"Lady Stark." Willam offered a false smile, lowering his head slightly to the mother of the king.

"Prince Willam." Catelyn replied. Her eyes darted from him to the caged lion with what seemed like fear, but Willam dismissed the notion.

"You brought a friend I see." Willam, having gotten to a sturdier stance upon seeing that his guest was not alone, addressed a rather large women that stood behind the Tully as if emulating her shadow. This was far from the first warrior women the young prince had laid eyes on, but she was certainty not the prettiest. He had not drunken enough to make this one pretty... not nearly enough. "Well met, lady-"

"Brienne." The giant women replied coldly, glancing between the prince and his sheathed sword.

Willam decided to ignore the giant women, offering only a polite nod in response. "Lady Stark," he returned to his smile that reeked of falsehood and wine. "you are aware that His Grace forbade you from seeing Ser Jaime. And I posted a man outside... the..." Willam lost his train of thought when his eyes rested on the giant women's sword, out of it's scabbard, covered with a layer of crimson. _"Ed."_ Willam thought, instinctively taking a step backwards as his hand moved to grip his sword and-

* * *

"Dead." Artos Stark muttered, his anger boiling as he read every word in his brothers letter. The blood price had been paid, as Rodriks letter stated, the remaining people of Ibben had been slaughtered to the last in response to the death of his nephew. "Typical," Artos signed. "just like Rodrik." It was not unexpected, Rodrik was always a realist, he'd mourn his eldest after those responsible were dead and after the war was done, but not before. He was a king now too so Artos expected he'd become even colder.

"My son is dead and his only concern is a crown." Rodrik's wife was pacing back and forth, her and Artos were alone in the great hall.

"You know my brother Jocelyn," Artos was desperately trying to calm the women. "he'll grieve in his own way."

"He writes about a fucking crown!" Jocelyn Stark snarled. "A crown, when my son is dead..."

"He loved Bran."

"Did he?!"

"You know he did." Artos kept his calm, sat in his brothers high seat.

She looked at Artos, the women had all but ran out of tears. "He was my son."

Artos honestly couldn't begin to understand the pain of losing a child, he hoped the gods let him die old and fat before taking any of his own. "He was a Stark." Those were all the words that came to mind. The doors to the hall burst open, it was Artos's wife, a furious look on her face. Mormonts... they rarely had any other look come to think of it.

"That's all you can say?" She scolded him, laying a hand on the pommel of the longsword strapped to her waist.

Artos sighed. "He was a Stark of Winterhold, Beth."

Bethany Stark stepped forward to her husband. "We know what family he's from, Art!"

"He was my nephew!" Artos snapped. "He was family and I will miss him. Is _that_ what you want to hear?"

"Enough!" Rodrik's wife interrupted the married couple.

After a moment Bethany placed a hand on Jocelyns shoulder. "He would've made a good king."

"Aye," Artos agreed. "that he would. Father would've been proud."

Jocelyn left the hall without another word, off to prepare for the arrival of her eldest sons cold body. The next few days would be the grimmest of Artos Starks rule for a long while to come, it seemed for every Stark the gods returned they took away another in kind. "First father, now this." Artos cursed the gods under his breath. The sooner Rodrik returned from his bloody conquest the better, he'd come to hate ruling Winterhold. Artos knew Rodriks new heir would hate it too... the lad just inherited a great burden.

* * *

King Rodrik sat on his unconformable golden throne, staring blankly at the sword of his fallen son that now laid across his lap. It was a fine blade, good strong steel with diamonds acting as eyes for the wolf head pommel, father had given all his children blades of such design when he felt they'd become worthy. Not merely a marker of ones name day, but a gift meant to be from a proud father to a son. Rodrik had given his away to his eldest when he thought Brandon was ready to lead.

 _"And now he's dead."_ Rodrik thought grimly. _"Just like father."_

The great doors at the end of the hall burst open, drawing Rodrik from his thoughts, his eyes away from his sons blade. "Your Grace." The new arrivals bent the knee, grey cloaks resting on the floor as they hung their heads in respect and awaited leave to stand. "You summoned us, how can we assist?"

Rodrik would've smiled at the show, but he couldn't find it in himself to do so. "How many times must I tell you that kneeling is not required, Greystark."

Lord Greystark got up from his knee. "At least once more, Your Grace."

"My son is dead." Rodrik spoke coldly as he caught a glimpse of the glinting diamonds in the corner of his eye.

"I-" Greystark hesitated. "You have my co-"

Rodrik was not finished. "My son is dead. My father is dead." He locked eyes with the young Ethan Greystark as he spoke, "Your own son crippled." causing Ethan to lower his eyes. Osric Greystark was alive, although his leg was crushed, the childhood friend of Prince Brandon was on his deathbed last Rodrik heard. "Osric is well, I hope?"

Greystark placed a hand on his sons shoulder. "He lives, Your Grace."

Rodrik gave a nod. "And his leg?"

"He-" Ethan found the words hard. "He'll never walk again without a cane, Your Grace."

"At least he'll live." Rodrik sighed. "Take some comfort in that, lad."

Ethan bowed his head once more, saying nothing.

Lord Greystark cleard his throat. "You called on us, Your Grace?"

"I have something to ask of you, my lord." Rodrik got up from his throne, putting his sons sword aside as he walked calmed down the steps.

"Anything, Your G-"

"First of all." Rodrik attempted a smile, hollow as it was. "You must stop called me that, we are family after all. Secondly..." He paused as he thought on the request and wondered if he should ask another. Edric would do it in a heartbeat. No, Rodrik abandoned the thought, he would not risk another brothers life.

"Your-" Greystark caught himself. "Rodrik?"

The king snapped himself out of his train of thought, realizing he'd gone silent for a moment there. "Secondly," he continued. "I would have you take fifty ships, sail west, and bring my brother back to us. He has spent too long away from home and we have lost too much Stark blood of late. Will you do this thing for me, my lord?"

Greystark knelt again, causing Rodrik to barely resist rolling his eyes. "I will bring Prince Willam home. I swear it."

"I know you will." Rodrik grabbed the mans shoulders, forcing him back to his feet.

"The ships," Greystark asked. "will be from our own levy?"

"Yours," Rodrik replied. "and Sunstarks."

"We don't need them." Ethan growled.

"Aye," Rodrik gave the young greystark a look. "the Sunstarks said much the same of you. You'll go regardless, together, putting any petty rivalry behind you." Greystark and Sunstark had held a friendly rivalry for years... things on the islands were often peaceful. That lead to boredom. That lead to houses attempting to out-do each other.

Ethan mumbled something under his breath as his father spoke. "As you say, Rodrik."

Rodrik offered his hand and Greystark gladly took it. "Bring back your Prince, Greystark. Bring back my brother."


	16. Chapter 16: The Hunt

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Reviews: 15delgizzij: The rebellion(s) over the Princedom/Kingdom title were different stories that I do intend to eventually cover once the main story is over; we'll do prologue/backstory highlight chapters that'll be about 10k words a piece. First of all, they are northmen, their lineage is extremely important to castoff cadet branches founded by 3th or 5th born sons of nobles. That being said, the hole title thing was more than once merely a convenient 'cause' that ambitious lords used to justify their rebellion. The Islands have had their share of tyrants too, not all just rebellions end with the good guys winning. House Frost is one such rebellion that had very valid reasons, a cause that was just, but ended up painted in a different color by the victors. Honor is not a Stark trait. :P All of that however is a tale for another day...

Note: I'm trying to write _slightly_ shorter chapters and release them more regularly as a result, 2/3k words being the sweet spot. The next chapter should as a result (I already have the basic idea written in my head for the next 2/3 chapters) be out without too large a gap between now and then. I promise nothing.. but we shall see.

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 **Chapter 16: The Hunt**

"Prince Brandon," A man spoke, with raven black hair and a slight smirk on his lips. "are you not supposed to be abed?"

"Father said I could say up to watch." Brandon spoke, holding his head up confidently. His eyes betrayed his lie in a way only a child could manage.

"A lie." The man spoke, smirking wider now.

"I-" Brandon panicked, wide-eyed as he sought for another tall tale.

It was another child that spoke. "Please let him stay father!"

"Plases?" A younger boy spoke, or at least attempted to do so.

"Please, Osric." The older man explained. "Please."

"Peas?" Osric attempted, much to his older brothers amusement.

Shooting a scolding look to his eldest, the man then directed his attention back to the prince. "You-"

"It's coming!" The older boy declared.

The man shook his head. "It's too soon Ethan."

"It-" Brandon moved closer for a better look.

"Ewww!" Ethan and Brandon both recoiled at the sight of a smaller wolf falling out of the larger wolf, causing Ethan's father to roll his eyes and laugh at their reactions before moving to assist his wolf and her newborn cub. "Is it meant to be so..." Brandon had summoned the courage to look inside the box. "bloody?"

"Me, me, me!" Osric pouted, too short to peak over the box despite his best efforts.

"She's fine, see?" The man smiled, holding up the newborn for the children to see. "A healthy boy," He muttered under his breath, _"gods willing."_

"It looks like a rat." Brandon commented, head tilted to the side as he watched the wolf lick her cub.

"No it doesn't!" Ethan protested.

"Yes it dose!" Brandon countered.

"Enough!" Ethan's father silent them with a low growl. "You'll upset the mother, and you don't want that..."

Ethan caved first under the steely eyes of his father. "Sorry father."

"Sorry Lord Greystark." Brandon followed suit, considering going second to be a victory, as he stuck his tongue out at Ethan when he wasn't looking.

Willam had stood silent throughout the scene, watching his young nephew as a child with a very young Lord Greystark and his two boys, they vanished into the darkness as quickly as they came and now he found himself in a far more unfamiliar room, this time standing alone in the darkness. Looking around he noted a man and a child standing in flickering torchlight, the man wearing ornate and costly armor, a crown of swords atop his head. "Hello?" He called out to the strangers but they seemed to ignore him. Willam slowly made his way over to the pair, out of the darkness and into the light of the torch. On closer inspection the man seemed akin to Willam's own father, the grey hair matched, but the many scars did not. Unlike the previous encounter the man was a complete stranger, although seemingly Stark in appearance.

"-the Vale." The man spoke to the child, as if finishing a conversation.

"Will I see it one day?" The child asked, dressed in a fine black doublet. He look to be barely ten years of age, by Willams guess, no older than he'd seen his nephew.

"Hello?" Willam repeated himself, standing behind the two. They ignored him entirely.

"One day lad." The old man smiled at the boy before walking into the darkness, the light of his torch fading.

"Wait!" Willam cried, unable to move from his position despite his best efforts.

The boy turned and stared right through Willam, tilting his head to the side with a curious look in his small grey eyes.

"Willam!" The old man called from the blackness.

"Wh-" Willam began, acting on instinct to the call of his name.

"Coming!" The boy turned and ran after the old man.

The room faded to black as the light of the torch vanished and suddenly Willam was surrounded by a flock of ravens, desperately holding one arm up to shield his eyes while frantically hacking at the feathered mass with his sword. "Stark!" The ravens taunted him in a thousand voices as a hundred things flashed before his eyes, nothing but fragments, as if looking at something in a broken mirror if every piece told a story. A mountain of corpses, a tower crashing into the sea and lastly a great fleet burning.

"Wake up." Another voice, unlike the others, spoke from the flock of ravens.

Willam ceased hacking at the mass as each and every raven dropped dead and fell to the floor. A women stood before him now, with emerald eyes and a mischievous smirk on her face. "Lya?" Willam muttered, lowing his sword as the women took a few steps out of the darkness. "Is- am I?"

"Not today." Lyarra placed her hands on Willam's chest and pushed, sending him falling backwards into the darkness.

"Gods." Willam swore, the world around him dark and blurry as he regained consciousness. The young prince was slumped against a wall, bringing his hand up to the back of his hea- "Fuck!" His hand recoiled at the sharp pain, blood on his palm as his eyes readjusted to the world. Willam looked to the cell that held the Kingslayer and found the door left open on it's hinges. "That fucking bitch!" Willam cursed, getting to his feet and moving to draw his steel encase his assailants were still near.

 _"Knocked out by a women,"_ Willam thought to himself and managed a smirk. _"Ed will never let me hear the-"_ The realization hit him harder than the women had, as the memory of fresh blood on the Tarth bitches sword flashed before his eyes. Edwyn would be fine, Willam told himself repeatable as he rushed to exit of the dungeon, he was merely wounded. He'll be fine and we'll all laugh about this later... the tale of the Wandering Wolf and the Bitch of Tarth. It'll be fine, Willam kept lying to himself, all the way up until he reached the exit and the light of the newly rising sun hit his skin. There was Edwyn Ryder, slumped against a wall, a stab wound through his chest and the light gone from his eyes. "Ed." Willam choked on the name as he rushed over to his friend, tossing his sword to the ground and falling to his side to check for a pulse. "No." Willam repeated, finding nothing. "No, no, no, no." He held Edwyn's head against his chest as he choked out the word "Guards" in barely a whisper. "GUARDS!" He screamed, getting the attention of the castle. Time passed in a blur. The guards found Willam knelt with a slain friend in his arms, he said nothing, staring at the guards with dead eyes. Robb had insisted that a maester see to Willams head wound, again he said nothing, letting the old man tend to the gash on his skull. With his wound stitched up Willam made his way to courtyard.

Walking into the courtyard as the embodiment of his recent nickname, dressed in a black leader surcoat offset by his silver pauldron and a cloak of fine black silk with silver trim. The Black Wolf. Willam had long since embraced the name, tweaking his attire to fulfill the role entirely. "What are you doing Karstark?"

Eddard Karstark sat mounted in the courtyard with some twenty Karstark men-at-arms. "I think I should be asking you that, Will."

"I'm leaving." Willam ignored his friend, walking towards the stables to fetch his horse.

Karstarks hand gripped Willam's shoulder, forcing him to stop in his tracks. "Not without me."

"It's not your business," Willam shrugged him off. "it's mine. Go back to your father."

"Who do you think sent me?" Eddard smirked.

"He assumes too much."

"He has a debt to repay." Eddard began to explain, standing firmly at the exit of the small stables where Willam was inside, strapping a saddle to a black destrier, trying his best not to sigh and simply accept the assistance. "You may as well accept it Will. We're coming with you to find this bastard."

"The Kingslayer?" Willam asked, holding his horse by the reigns. "You think I want the Kingslayer?"

Eddard raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Tririk sygerrik." Willam muttered, narrowing his eyes. "I want the bitch that killed my friend."

"And I want the bastard that killed my brother." Eddard growled, narrowing his own eyes to match his friends stare. As if daring him to refuse.

Pushing past the agitated Karstark, Willam lead his horse by the reigns. "So be it, follow or don't. I do not care."

Eddard smirked in his victory, grabbing the reigns of his own horse and mounting up. "Ready lads?" He asked the twenty or so mounted men-at-arms that had been patiently waiting in the yard until now. "We have us a lion to hunt!" The men cheered heartily, clearly looking forward to the hunt. A voice interrupted their leave, one that gave the men pause and forced Willam's attention away from bolting out of the gatehouse and onto the hunt.

"Willam!" Robb called, having entered the yard to the sound of cheering men and inpatient hooves. Greywind bounded over to the prince.

"Ska." Willam took a knee to stroke Greywind behind the ears as he continued to speak in a harsh, clanging tongue. "Tririk sygerrik gram, gerrik." Willam paused at that, looking up to see the confused look on Robb Starks face. "Na Syg, Magnar Ska." Without another word, jumping into his saddle, Willam pulled on his reigns and turned to leave.

"Willam!" Robb called again as Karstark lead his men out under the gatehouse.

Willam stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder as his horse impatiently kicked the dirt under it's hooves.

Robb had a confused and frankly concerned look on his face. "What was all that?"

"Keep him close, Your Grace." Willam motioned towards Greywind as the wolf looked between the two Starks, seemingly conflicted. Willam pushed his horse into a gallop before either Robb or Greywind could think of stopping him, although a small part of Willam hoped that Robb would try. If he had been alone, perhaps, but he rode with Karstark men and an actual Karstark. Lord Rickard would have some answering to do, no doubt. Willam shook off the thought as he caught up to Eddard and began riding hard eastward.

* * *

They prey had almost a days head start over them as Willam and Eddard rode at the head of some twenty guardsmen, the sounds of hooves thundering over a small cobblestone bridge and back onto one of the many crude dirt roads that littered the Riverlands. The party came to an abrupt stop at the riverbank where the horses could take a moment to rest, and the trackers could regain sight of the tracks that had led them over the bridge. _"Too easy."_ Willam thought, nothing was ever this easy.

"Find the bastards tracks!" Eddard began shouting orders. "See the horses watered!"

Willam remained on his horse, staring blankly at his surroundings. He'd spoken very little throughout the ride.

"We'll find them." Eddard attempted to reassure the prince.

Willam gave a simple nod in response as he dismounted, taking his black destrier by the reigns and leading him to the riverbank, a fair distance to the side from where the Karstark guardsmen were leading their own horses. Willam didn't want their pitied looks or attempts at encouragement. Honestly, he just wanted to go home.

"Found em m'lord!" One of the trackers yelled, rushing up to his liege with the news.

"Excellent." Eddard smirked, his prey once more in sight. "Finish up and mount up lads, we've got the bastards trail!"

A collective cheer came from the guardsmen who began leading their horses back to the road. Willam stayed with his horse, casually stroking it's mane and taking in his surroundings. It was quite beautiful here in truth, having ridden past more than a few burnt out homes, this place seemed entirely untouched by the war.

"Will!" Eddard called, atop his horse waiting impatiently.

Willam ignored the call, his eyes focued on some fresh drag marks along the riverbank. "A boat." He muttered to himself before looking over to Karstark. "The tracks," he asked. "they speed up into a gallop, no?" Karstark looked to his tracker at that for an answer to the seemingly odd question. Eddard trusted Will had his reasons however.

"Aye, m'lord." The tracker answered.

"They continued by boat," Wilam sighed. "left the horses to leave false tracks."

"How could you know that?" Eddard asked, hoping beyond hope that the prince was wrong.

"It's what I'd do." Willam replied, taking a knee in the muddy riverbank as a hawk flew overhead. The party began bickering among themselves, Willam could only hear it faintly at first before the sound faded with the wind as he felt the same winds blow past his wings. He could see for miles around, looking down upon the twists and turns of the river.

"Will?" A voice echoed. "Will?!"

"Follow the bird." Willam spoke, getting to his feet, his fine black cloak dirtied with mud as he leapt into his saddle.

"Follow the-" Eddard shot the prince a confused look. "What?"

As Karstark spoke a hawk dived over his head, landing gracefully on Willam's shoulder. "As I said," the hawk turned around on his new masters silver pauldron and screeched at the man. "we follow the bird." Willam smirked as he thought, the loud impatient screeching reminding him of something... or somebody. "His names Cregan."


	17. Chapter 17: The Hunted

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Reviews: As to Jon not being at the Wall, I am of the belief that Jon has a 'destiny' and often you cannot escape destiny, so I wouldn't go thinking Jons all save and sound. As for the Wall without Jon there? He was instrumental in the defense of the wall, but Stannis would have still showed up and saved the day.

Notes: Please take the time to review this chapter and tell me what you thought about the ending. I'd appreciate the feedback.

* * *

 **Chapter 17: The Hunted**

A days of riding down the riverbank under a hawks instruction, a fact that still confused the Karstark men, but they knew better than to ask. Prince Willam was as a wolf hot on the trial of a wounded deer; he would not be talked out of the path and if Eddard Karstark was not willing to try getting answers then nobody was willing to try. Any doubts they held were quickly removed when the group came across a small boat, exactly where Willam claimed they'd find it. It was not along until the tracks of two people turned into the tracks of a large party on horseback leading Willam to assume either the Kingslayer had been capture or rescued by some Lannister scouting or raiding force. There was a third options, the Brotherhood, but they did not have so many horses. No, Willam counted on them being captured and the tracks lead directly East towards Harrenhal or a castle beyond that. However, if captured by allies, Harrenhal held the closest host of Stark banners. It was the best option given the situation.

Willam knelt next to a stump in a small wooden clearing. "Blood." He muttered aloud.

"The Kingslayers?" Eddard suggested, clearly anger over the idea that somebody may have stolen his justice.

"I doubt it," Willam replied with a shake of his head. "regardless there is not nearly enough for a lethal wound. So, no execution."

"So," Ed paused. "what does this mean?"

Willam shrugged. "Very little I'm afraid."

"Surely a Lannister party wouldn't have done this."

"It could bee the Tarth women's blood." Willam explained with a sigh. "Or a simple wound from anyone in their party, they could have been attacked by the brotherhood for all we know although there is no sign of arrows or a struggle. I'll rule that much out. No, we ride onward to Harrenhal and ask for news there..."

"Tomorrow, Will." Karstark put a handle on the princes shoulder.

"I-" Willam was about to protest until he noticed the sky was darkening, it was late than he'd realized.

"Aye," Willam agreed reluctantly. "tomorrow."

In the middle of the night Willam was rudely awoken by his friend. "Will," the annoying voice of Karstark poked at his sleep. "Will, wake up."

"Gods," Willam swore. "what is it Karstark?"

"Your a warg, right?"

It was an innocent enough question Willam supposed, but he'd learn that the North had long since dismissed wargs as the things of legend. They had forgotten a lot, in hindsight, warging the least important of things really. Robb was one, but Willam had never thought to bring up the subject. "Yes." Willam replied. "Can I sleep now?"

"You make it sound so..." Karstark paused to think. "Boring."

Willam sighed. "What do you wish to know?"

"How'd you learn?", "What's it like?" "Can you teach me?"

The volley of questions were akin to one of his nephews asking about swordplay; it would have been rather amusing if he hasn't so darn tired. Still, he answered as best he could, being far from an expert on the subject. "You'd either born with it or your not.", "It's like dreaming, I suppose.", "I'm no teacher." He answered bluntly.

"I take it warging is a common thing back home?" Karstark asked, after his other questions were answered.

"Aye," Willam said with a yawn. "the Houses Stark and Morment are most common and most of our noble houses have intermarried with either houses and the cadet branches at one point or another. I suppose it's no surprise that it become so common a thing; especially when The Shipwright himself was a warg."

"We should train our men." Karstark suggested. "Just imagine it, an army that could scout from the skies!"

Willam couldn't help but smirk at his friends childlike enthusiasm, but he was tired. "Can I sleep now, Karstark?"

Hm?" Eddard shook himself from his thoughts. "Yes, yes. We'll talk more tomorrow Will."

"Aye," Willam closed his eyes. "tomorrow." He fell asleep almost instantly, tired from the riding and the warging too as frankly he was never the greatest of wargs, not everyone was so blessed and honestly he found the experience too... strange... for his tastes. He dreamt a dream not had since his trip to White Harbor in what felt like so many years ago, washing up on a shore where a beautiful woman was sprawled naked on the sand while five little men crawled over her. He drew his sword in her defense as he had done in the dream before, only to fall to his knees again, choking on blood as Stark sails appeared upon the horizon, sailing on a sea crimson with his blood.

* * *

Willam was at the head of the group, the direwolf of Stark flying proudly in the wind as his party laid eyes on Harrenhal. _"Dragons,"_ Willam thought to himself as he recalled the first time he'd heard of the mighty beats that made the King of Winter bend the knee. _"so this is what they were capable of..."_ In it's day, before the conquest, it would would have been the largest castle ever constructed with it's colossal curtain walls high as mountain cliffs and gatehouse as large as Winterfell's Great Keep. A seat of kings, in the end serving as nothing but a grave and constant reminder. He couldn't help but sympathize with Torrhen Stark as he motioned his horse forward.

The Karstarks rode behind him alongside their lord, whom rode beside Willam. The host of Lord Boltons seemed to watch them like hawks as they rode into the main courtyard, the opposite of the reception Willam would expect from one carrying the Stark banner, but this _was_ Bolton. A quick glace at Karstark revealed the two shared a similar view.

Ignoring the Bolton men-at-arms Willam dismounted and made his way into what has the largest hall he'd ever seen. Thirty-four or thirty-five hearths by his count, with floors of smooth slate. The hall was more than large enough to host Boltons men, or the entirety of the Stark levy. "Lord Bolton," He gave a nod to the man he knew as Roose Bolton, the leech lord was not a man you forget easily. "This place is... quite impressive. Where are the others?" The lack of any non-bolton banners did not go amiss.

"The others?" Bolton spoke in barely a whisper, if he cared for their arrival or not Willam honestly couldn't say.

"The others." Willam repeated, narrowing his eyes slightly. "A _third_ of the foot levies, surely you remember..."

"And my brother too." Eddard added with no lack of venom.

"Ah," Roose made no effort to explain. "all in good time. Will you join me for supper Stark? We can di-"

"I did not come to sup with you, Bolton."

Roose said nothing, his eerie pale eyes awaiting a explanation.

"I'm hunting the Kingslayer." Willam explained. It was best to leave out the part about the giant bitch, the Kingslayer would be more important to Bolton.

"And you thought him here?" Roose kept his expression blank. "I can assure you, Stark, that if the Kingslayer was here I would be aware of it."

Willam doubted that, but he recalled his original question. The one Bolton so easily skipped around. "You didn't answer my question, where are the others?"

"You'll dine with me tonight, Lord Stark." Bolton was adamant of that fact. "I'll discuss matters with you there, and perhaps together we can find the Kingslayer..."

Once more, Willam found every word Bolton spoke to be dripping with more questions than answers. The tracks had lead directly to out grounds of Harrenhal and the chances that both of them were captured and brought elsewhere were slim to say the least. If it was Lannisters, Boltons outriders would have easily spotted them. If it was Bolton men, then the obvious was still the case. _"Riverlords?"_ Willam thought, trying to ignore the likely possibility that Bolton was lying. _"No,"_ he decided almost instantly. " _the closest is Darry and the lads dead with the castle in ruins last I heard."_ He thought on the matter, as a Bolton man-at-arms led him to his chambers.

Karstark gave him a brief nod as they separated, an understanding between the two without the need for words. To keep ones sword close at all times.

The chambers were modest but Willam did not plan on staying in the hospitality of Lord Bolton for long, he would have brake his fast with the man and get his answers as soon as was possible. A part of him wished to leave now and continue the hunt, but another part told him that no matter Boltons coldness he would not dare to hinder, yet alone harm, a Stark. He'd experience with disgruntled and even ambitious lords in the past and all knew better than to overstep. This lord was no different.

It was barely an hour before a servant called on Willam and lead him down the old corridors of Harrenhal, to the hall where Bolton sat at the head of a table.

"Lord Bolton," Willam stepped forward, taking out a chair for himself at the opposite end of the table from Roose. "thank you for having me. I fear I was too forward with you on our arrival and for that I apologize, you understand it had been a long ride. And there is an individual in the Kingslayers ranks that took something from me..."

Usually the lord in question, from Willams experience, would have stopped him mid apology. Roose did not. He merely gave a nod in response before moving a piece of venison into his mouth; cut so small as to feed a child oddly enough. Willam too moved to try a piece of his own fine cut of venison served with a simple glass of water.

They ate in silence for a good minute, all the while Bolton seemed to maintain eye contact on his quest.

"Lord Glover went with most of the foot to seize Duskendale." Bolton stated flatly before sipping from his glass.

Willam almost choked on his water. "What? That's madness!"

Bolton put his glass down and called for a servant to take it away.

"Helman Tallhart," He began without a hint of emotion. "marched with Robett Glover to Duskendale. Along with Harrion Karstark and his men. A folly, but Glover was heedless after he learned that Deepwood Moote had fallen. Grief and fear will do that to a man." There was _something_ in his voice, but not the sorrow or regret that you'd expect.

It hit Willam like a wave. "You allowed this."

Bolton smiled, a chilling thing.

"You sent men hungry for vengence walking into-"

"-a trap." Bolton finished for him.

 _"Why?"_ Willam wanted to say, but another thought took him. "Where is Eddard?"

Bolton returned to his venison.

"Answer me traitor!" Willam demanded.

"Dead." Roose answered after swallowing. "Like his brother, most like."

"Why?" Willam snarled. "Why do this?!"

"Robb Stark has lost, boy." Roose place his knife down on the table.

It was something Willam had admitted to himself before and once again found himself agreeing with. Stannis's defeat coupled with the Tyrell alliance and now this of all things? The war was lost, only a blind man could deny that. The only question that remained was an all too obvious one. He asked it regardless. "Why tell me all of this?"

"Why not?" Bolton said, sitting casually in his seat. "Your not leaving here alive, Stark."

In his anger and fear Willam failed to notice the man approach from behind, whom proceed to wrap his hands around his neck and choke. Wide-eyed, Willam grabbed his dinner knife from the table and stabbed his attacker repeatably; causing the man to yelp in pain the release his grip. Willam fell backwards on his chair, gasping for breath.

"Kill him." He heard Bolton say after a moment. Willam got to his feat and spun around to see a number of armed guards having entered the room.

All quickly unsheathed their blades and rushed him. The first came at him with the point of his blade aiming for his left shoulder a little above the collar-bone. He had been aiming for that, but in the excitement missed. Willam moved to defend himself, pulling his sword from it's scabbard and slashing open the first attackers throat. In response one of the attackers shouted out, directing another to grab Willam's swordarm from behind and drive his blade into the wolfs ribs. After a moment, another made a slash at his face, and yet another pierced him in the side. As they landed blow after blow each spoke insults. "Pup!", "Our Knives are Sharp!", "Flay Him!", to name a few. The blades struck deep, again and again and again...

Under the mass of wounds and blind from blood, the young prince had fallen to the stone floor. All the traitors wanted to seem to have had some part in the killing, and there was not one of them who failed to strike his body as it lay there, until, as Willam lay dying, a voice ceased the blades. "Enough." The voice spoke, akin to a whisper.

"A shame." Bolton stood above Willam as the young prince crawled over to his sword; having dropped it after the ninth or so stabbing.

Willam was haft blinded by the blood, but the glint of his diamond head pommel caught his eye and he used all his strength to reach the blade. As his bloody hand grasped the swords grip Bolton placed a boot on his hand. "Ahhhrrggg!" Willam growled in pain, spitting out some blood. "If the Young Wolf had listened to you more," Bolton spoke as he crushed the wolfs claws between the sword and his boot. "things might have turned out so differently. If you Starks were not so arrogant..."

Boltons words faded into nothing, replaced by another, kinder voice. "My son." It spoke with a smile. "I know you feel you have no choice but to try, you've your mothers damned curiosity. You do her proud lad, just know that wherever you go, we will be with you." Willam Stark died, thinking of a home he wished he'd never left.


	18. Chapter 18: Winter is Coming

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Reviews: Just the response I was hoping for, even those that cried and swore off reading, this is the Game of Thrones and I'm afraid people die. I'll have no mary sues nor a story where everything goes perfectly according to plan. Willam Stark, while a major character, was only a single person. I picture some of those that swore off reading wanted Willam to stop the Red Wedding and win the war... but that's outrageously unrealistic. Still, most of you are not so easily broken. I'll have to try harder!

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 **Chapter 18: Winter is Coming**

Dorren Stark was the eldest and only son of Prince Artos and Bethany Stark, nephew to the now King Rodrik at the young age of only six and ten, a man now in the eyes of his family and a capable swordsmen thanks in large part to his fathers teachings; while the third born son Dorren's father was easily the best sword the islands had to offer and Dorren was determined, ever since he could hand a sword, to prove himself as his fathers son and one day surpass him... but that was proving difficult.

The all too familiar sound of clashing steel echoed in the air of the courtyard as two young wolves fought, their families servants gathered to watch the show. After the initial clash they now stepped around an imaginary circle. One, with shorter hair than his opponent, stepped the opposite way, maintaining his distance and prepared to defend against any blow. The second wolf was less patient and tired of waiting, lunging forward with a centuries old war cry.

*Clash* Their swords locked and the wolves snarled.

"Your too eager, Rick." Dorren smirked at his cousin. The Crown Prince at only four and ten since the passing of his brother Brandon.

"And you talk too much!" Rickard Stark snarled, using his strength to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked as he seemed to gain the upper hand, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung forward, hoping to end things there and then. Too confident for one so young.

"Fuck!" He cried as Dorren side-stepped, easily dodging the strike and disarming his foe.

"Your also predictable." Dorren mocked, standing idle as his cousin picked up his sword.

"Predict this!" Rickard lunged wide and Dorren quickly moved to parry, but took a step closer and brought his sword up, warped it around his opponents then slid down the outside of his blade, jerking his own sword inward causing the second dragons sword to fly out of his hand. Leaving the little Princely shocked.

"Thank you," Dorren bowed as the audience clapped. "I'm here all week."

"You cheated!" Rickard scowled.

"No, cousin. I won." Dorren smiled, ruffling his cousins hair against his will.

An older wolf entered the yard, clapping slowly with a genuine smile on his face. "Well done nephew, your getting better."

"I _lost_ uncle." Rickard sighed, clearly disappointed.

Artos one placed a hand on hos nephews shoulder. "I taught my son as he now teaches you. Keep at it and you'll only improve with time lad."

Rickard smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, uncle."

"Artos!" A women called.

"Wife." Artos replied to the voice, turning around to see a women in her mid thirties accompanied by a number of other women and some personal swords acting as her guard. Not that the gaurds were truely nessassary, no fool would attack a Stark in Brandon's Landing, but still. "Your back from the city early, nothing serious I hope?"

She smiled. "Must I have a reason for wanting to see my son?"

"Just your son?"

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the old fool. "Dorren."

"Mother."

"Not being too hard on your cousin I trust?"

"He got lucky." Rickard stuck his tongue out at his cousin.

"I disarmed him." Dorren moved to defend himself, rolling his eyes in the process.

Dorren's mother smiled lovingly at the show. "Come," She spoke to the youngest pup. "lets get that seen to."

Artos and his son were left alone in the yard afterwards, short of the odd servant tending to the pants. "How's he doing, really?"

Dorren hesitated to respond as he thought on his cousins progress. "He's learning, but attacks without thinking."

"Reminds me of you," Artos smiled at his boy. "keep at it and he'll come around."

"I want to leave."

Silence. They'd had this discussion before and Dorren had only grown more and more restless ever since the idea entered his head. "We've talked about this lad," Artos sighed. "I know you believe that it's your only option, you want glory and purpose, but why pin it all on this? There are other things in this life."

"I don't dream of being a guardsmen, father." Dorren scowled, repeating old words. "I want to fight!"

"Your still young lad."

"I'm a man grown!"

Artos looked at his son, the boy was not going to change his mind. "Your mother would kill me if I let you go."

"She'd understand," Dorren looked away from his fathers gaze. "she has the girls to keep her busy."

"Your her firstborn. She'll never accept letting you go off on some foolish adventure, that you may not return from."

"I'll not die father."

"You've said that before." Artos wished the boy would see reason, but he knew better than to prey for miracles. "Many dead men have said that through history, before their lives were cut short by an arrow or axe." It was a conversation that he was never going to win, and one that he feared would eventually drive his son away. So they entered their home and spoke more behind closed doors. "There is a envoy from the empire that arrived last night..."

Dorren's eyes lit up with excitement.

"I will speak with him." Artos sighed. "We'll see if there is a-"

"Thank you!" Dorren assaulted his father with a hug, his smile beaming.

"Don't thank me yet boy, they may have no use for you."

That was unlikely, Dorren knew, the Empire never turned down swords when they were offered. "I know, father." He kept his knowing grin. They both knew the envoy would happily accept a Starks blade; especially if the troubles they'd been speaking of were anything to go by. Dorren would finally get his chances to prove himself.

"Your going to have to explain this to your mother..."

At those words Dorren's hopes were shattered. "Shit." He muttered, causing his father to laugh at the boys misfortune.

* * *

They'd been at sea for coming on two weeks now. Having stopped only at the Free City of Lorath to relay King Rodrik's response to the cities accepted terms; a basic understanding of mutual trade and cooperation between the two powers under the threat of Lorath becoming Rodriks next conquest had they refused his most generous offer. It had been uncharacteristic of Rodrik, in truth, Cregan knew his brother to be consumed by what the family called 'wolfs blood'. Inheriting fathers seat had tempered him some.

That or it had been Lyarra's influence. Rodrik turned into puppy when his sister wanted something, although he'd never admit it.

Although he did not have to admit it as the very fact that he was here and not back on dry land was proof enough for anyone that cared to look, his sister had decreed that she would travel to Westeros with the fleet on 'the gods business' and that was... well... that. Rodrik was king. Rodrik certainly didn't want to let her go. Rodrik however was not above the gods, he was answerable, as any other man. "Keep her safe and bring Willam home." Rodrik commanded him, handing Cregan his recently dead nephews sword.

"Bastard." Cregan muttered to himself as he recalled the events, his brother making him swear on the blade made it impossible for him to fail. Yet alone refuse.

He sat on a table in the captains cabin, having been named captain of the only ship in the fleet of some fifty vessels to bare the Stark banner while the others flew those of Greystark, Sunstark and a number of other individual ships from smaller houses that jumped gladly at the opportunity to have kin step foot back on Westeros.

"Prince Cregan." A knock came on his cabin door.

He placed his quill down. "Enter."

"Forgive me for the interruption," the man bowed his head. "but we have arrived."

"My thanks." Cregan nodded, dismissing the man. He got up from his seat and moved for the door, grabbing his late nephews sword and securing it to his waist as he went. Walking out onto the deck he noted that the rains had stopped, although it was still cloudy, at least they were out of the storm. "I've had worse" He recalled the storm that claimed Willam's ship and left them stranded on the shores of Westeros. Cregan felt a tug in his chest. He missed his little shit of the a baby brother... but would never admit it.

It was at that thought that Cregan realized how much he sounded like Rodrik. He cursed under his breath and vowed never to think it again.

"Prepare to dock!", The deck was alive with motion and voices ordering about the two hundred or so men running around like so many ants each with a task to perform. "To your places you sea wolves, before Winter comes!", Cregan ignored the back and forth between the crew and made his way to the ships bow where he knew his sister would be.

To his surprise, Jon was there, clearly embarrassed as his sister was whispering things at the boy. "Lyarra!" Cregan interrupted. "Not corrupting the lad I trust?"

She smiled. "Me?"

"Yes, beloved sister." Cregan's eyes darted between them. "You."

Lyarra rolled her eyes and turned to take her leave.

Cregan grabbed her arm before she could escape. "Have you felt anything?"

She glared at his hand, that Cregan promptly released.

"Well?" Cregan asked, almost sounding as to beg. "Are we wasting our time?"

She muttered, "He lives.", before walking down the steps onto the deck.

"What was that about, Snow?"

"I-" Jon stuttered. "She-"

Cregan waved him off. "I don't want to know, but best you stay clear lad if you value your sanity."

"It was not like tha-"

He cut the boy off again. "It's your fate lad."

Ghost sat silence at Jons feet as if watching the humans closely, his blood red eyes staring at them both. The ship had since separated from the main fleet, alongside two others that carried the Lords of Sun and Greystark, sailing towards the- "Harooooooooooooooooooooooo" A mighty roar rang, a terrible groaning and grinding blast so loud it drowned out every other sound. "I think they know we have arrived..." Cregan uttered, looking up at the thing responsible for making their ears ring.

"The Titan." Jon Snow muttered to himself in awe as they sailed beneath the massive massive stone and bronze fortress in the shape of a giant man, which guarded the entrance into the lagoon that the Free City of Braavos called home. The legs and lower torso were of the same black granite that formed the islands upon which it stood. Above the waist, the colossus was bronze, its bronze breastplate punctured with arrow slits. One hand rested on the top of a ridge, its bronze fingers wrapped around the stone while the other hand was thrust into the air, holding the hilt of a broken sword. The Titan's head, rising some three or perhaps four hundred feet above sea level by Cregans guess, was crested with a bronze halfhelm. In its eyes burnt large beacon fires, lighting the way back inside the lagoon for returning ships. The Titan's hips are encased in an armored skirt of a green bronze hue, the bottom covered in murder holes. It was clear to Cregan in this moment, that Braavos was not to be underestimated.

Without a doubt Cregan expected that stones and pots of burning pitch could be dropped onto the decks of any that attempt to pass between the Titan's legs without leave, a formidable first line of defense. He was glad Rodrik had either the wisdom or the blind luck to have not angered the Free Cities... it would not have been a certain outcome. As it stood, the city of Braavos had been made aware of the newfound 'alliance' between Lorath and Rodrik and as the Braavosi controlled everything from the western coast of Lorath Bay to all the seas northwest of Essos, they had been gently advised to seek an audience and ensure future relations. Peaceful ones at that, or so Cregan hoped...

"I always wanted to see Essos." Jon uttered to himself, as the ships began to leave the Titan behind. The rest of the fleet remaining behind.

Cregan looked at the boy, a look of awe still on his face. "Why didn't you then?"

"My father never would've allowed it."

Cregan understood why. No father eagerly sends a child off into the unknown... or at least most don't. Some lords simply had far too many sons.

"Braavos is only a short stop." He explained to the young Snow. "We'll greet the lords, offer this and that on my brothers behalf and get news of the current events in Westeros before sailing off to White Harbor and dragging my wandering princely brother back home with his tail between his legs..."

"Why would we need news?"

Cregan looked at him as if he'd been asked why the sky is blue. "Information is power, lad."

They were directed to what the locals called the Ragman's Harbor, one of three ports in Braavos, open to all foreign ships, unlike the Purple Harbor, which was apparently left open exclusively to local ships. It looked poored, dirtier, and and noisier than the Purple Harbor. Many people seemed to make their living around Ragman's Harbor, including porters, mummers, ropemakers, sailmenders, taverners, brewers, bakers, beggars, and whores. A dirtier version of Brandon's Landing, Cregan noticed, but how different could any port truly be from another? It was said, or told or at elast, that Braavos held great shipwrights... but if that was the case, Cregan could not see them here.

They docked without issue, by far the largest ships to have arrived in some time it seemed as they grabbed the attention of everyone at the docks; the strange banners and those crewing beneath them luring many a curious onlooker. It did not take long for them to be greeted at the docks, baring a spare minute from stepping onto dry land passed before a man speaking seemingly broken common greeted them. "Welcome," He spoke with a genuine grin. "Wolflords. To the Free City of Braavos."

Cregan spoke first, since the other lords had yet to disembark from their own ships. "Quite the impressive city you have here..."

"Yes!" The mans smile grew. "Now, a quick search of your ship will be-"

"A search?" Cregan raised a brow. "What cause do you have for that?"

The man, to his credit, did not seem in the slightest bit concerned. "It is customary for every ship that docks in our fair city to undergo a search..."

"And how long do these searches usually take?"

"For a vessel of this size?" The man paused, scratching his chin as he looked at the ship. "Two decks, some two hundred crew by my guess..." There was silence for a time as the man wrote in a small book, silent but for the sound of galls and usual calls of shopkeepers selling their wares. "A day. Haft a day if all goes well."

Cregan stared blankly at the man, a clam smile on his lips. "A hole day..."

"That is correct." The man looked down at his notes. "Can you inform us what we shoudl expect during the search?"

Cregan smirked. "Two hundred or so heavily armed men, a handful of hungry beasts, the usual food and provisions and a bloody unstable lack of patience after having sailed so far from Ibben to your fair city on invitation by your Sealord." In short, Cregan wanted to get this over with so they coul find Willam and bring him home.

"Good." The man replied, repeating the word a few times as he added notes. "Your ship will undergo searching during your stay with us, Prince Cregan."

He never told him his name. "How did you-"

"It's out business to know."

"Alright." Cregan thought it odd, but assumed Rodrik had mentioned those in command in his letters. "If that's all?"

The crew had since disembarked and across the pier Cregan could see the Lords Greystark and Sunstark undergoing the same introduction and he assumed, the same searches. "That is all." The man replied, closing his book with a load thud. "Welcome to Braavos, Prince Cregan. May your stay be beneficial for us all."

"Prince Cregan?" A crewman stepped up beside him. "Your orders?"

"Tell the men we've some shore-leave," Cregan replied as he looked out at the locals whom had since stopped staring at their arrival. "but keep the ships guarded. Have some wargs scout the sky for any surprises and relay our safe docking to the fleet. If everything goes to plan we should be done and gone by night-"

"Ghost!" Came the panicked voice of Jon Snow, whom rushed past Cregan after the white blur that sprinted off into the streets of Braavos.

"Hm," Cregan muttered to himself. "It seems that wolf of yours is always getting into trouble lad."

"I don't know what's wrong with him..."

"Go see to Lord Greystark, his wolves will track down Ghost for you easily enough before he gets into any butcher shops or gods know what he's up to..." It was, Cregan knew, entirely likely that the direwolf knew exactly what he was doing. They were far from stupid creatures. Ghost would be fine and there was more pressing business.

* * *

Dorren awoke in his chambers the next morning, not as well furnished as the rooms of King Rodrik's children, but befitting a Stark of Winterhold all the same. It was a small wonder when Dorren thought on it that a new wing had been built onto the main keep to house the growing number of Starks that were filling the halls; the family had never been so plentiful as when Prince Brandon VII's descendants fill the halls with pups of their own. His uncle, Willam, had often joked that a new keep would need to be built.

He'd admired Willam growing up, as the only one of his uncles other than Cregan to really take notice of him while Rodrik and Edric ran the lands and fulfilled duties that Dorren would never been to concern himself over. He learnt, true enough, but he'd never inherit Winterhold. With that in mind, he focused on his swordsmanship and spent his days either sparring in the yard with the Greycloaks or out hunting in the thick woods at the islands center. He couldn't complain, it was a better life than most.

The Prince let out a yawn as he propped himself up in the bed, smirking at the annoyed look on the wolf that sat on the end of the bed.

"Time is wasting, boy."

The wolf growled at it's master, annoyed at being awoken so early.

Dorren rolled his eyes, keeping up from the bed to dress himself. "Come on!" He urged the wolf with a light chuckle at the beasts annoyance. If wolves could roll their eyes, this one would do just that. "The envoy will be with father in the hall to break his fast. We cant be late, don't you want to see the east boy?"

The wolves head jolted up at that.

"I thought so." Dorren smirked.

He dressed in a simple grey doublet with black trousers and his usual leather belt the held his sword and scabbard; having been taught to never be without a sword on his person. The thing that stood out among his attire was the silver direwolf pin that marked him as a Stark. As if anyone in Winterhold would mistake him...

"My Prince," The servants would greet him as he passed them by. "Good morning," and "Morning," or a simply nod to show their respect. He'd reply in kind and even knew a few of their names too. It was a small thing that, knowing a servants name, but it was something that made them feel accepted. "We are nothing without them." His grandfather once told him when he was very young. "A good Prince puts the needs and well being of his people ahead of his own desires, always, or he is no Prince at all."

Dorren often thought of his uncle Rodrik then, known for his ruthlessness but also for his justice and loyalty to those that were loyal in turn. As hard as the lands he rules. _"A true Stark."_ Dorren thought of the man, and was very thankful that he'd never be a King. No. That was far too much weight for his shoulders. Far too much indeed.

"I trust, then, that your Prince will arrive shortly?" His father could be seen talking to a dark skinned man Dorren knew to be the envoy.

"I expect they will arrive soon, and we can begin the talks then." The envoy spoke with a harsh common tongue, not the native langue of the empire, but what good was an envoy if they could not speak to those they set out to speak to in the first place? "I apologize for the delay, Prince Stark. This is entirely my fault..."

"Nonsense." Atros dismissed the notion. "We are in no rush."

The envoy shifted in his boots at the notion, clearly, he at least was in some rush.

"I'm sorry lad," Artos looked to his son, waiting patiently with a hand casually on the pommel of his sword. "I didn't see you there."

"Father." Dorren bowed his head.

"This is the envoy we spoke of before."

Again, Dorren bowed his head. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure is my own, young Stark." The envoy seemed to study him closely.

"What are these talks, father?"

Artos sighed. "It seems the troubles of the empire are worse than I thought."

"The usurper and his rebel friends are causing trouble in the south, pouring out of the wilds like a great plague." The envoy explained, uneasy. "I fear if nothing is done to stop them now that it may be too late. My Prince comes on the morrow to seek an audience with your father and gain his allegiance..."

"The Empire has always had our friendship." Artos said, bluntly.

"Friendship," The envoy smiled. "as you say Prince Stark. We are glad for it."

"You'll be going to war father?" Dorren asked, eyes wide with excitement.

"I will be it seems, yes."

"You mean we," Dorren narrowed his eyes. "father?"

"I had planned on waiting until I spoke with the Prince."

"Your leaving me behind?!"

"I'm leaving you in charge of the castle." Artos explained with a stern look that bore no argument. "Only a token force is to remain here, and you must keep peace in the region. You know what they say about the rats when the wolf is away, yes? You wanted a chance to prove yourself, here it is lad."

"I-" Dorren thought for any excuse. "It's Ricks castle, he should be-"

"My nephew is ten and four, a boy still by all accounts." His father replied with a shake of his head. "No. You can prove yourself here by-"

Dorren interrupted with a fury in his ice-grey eyes. "I want to fight!"

"No!" Artos spat. "You will stay here, protect your cousin, and do your duty."

The envoy laughed. "A temperament to match his fighting skill I see? This one would do well in the field..."

"You honor the boy," Artos stepped in front of his son with a snarl. "but this is my only son your talking about. He stays here."

"An honest observation Prince Stark, nothing more." The envoy bowed his head.

With a huff Artos turned back to his son. "Go find your mother lad, she'll be needed soon enough."

"Yes father." Dorren knew he'd lost this battle. "Where is she?"

"With your cousins last I saw her." Artos gave a sympathetic look to his son. "Go, find your mother. We'll talk later."

Dorren said his farewells to his father and the envoy, reluctantly accepting his fate in staying home while his father sailed off to war. The second chance stolen from him, the first begin when Prince Brandon left him behind to go off conquering with Rodrik. _"Only his body returned,"_ Dorren thought, wondering if he could've saved his cousin had he been there to do so... or if he too would have ended up dead or crippled like Greystark. With a heavy heart he went in search of his mother, cursing the gods under his breath.


	19. Chapter 19: Setting Sail

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Reviews/Notes: Wolftamer96: I may have nicked inspiration from the cousland story to scare people in this instance, your quite right to think of DA:O. Great game btw for anyone that's not played it. I played it _so_ many times that I can recall most of the dialog by heart. Moving on, the Starks are slowly getting more angry, haha.

I'll be introducing the Empire in greater detail as we go, but I take inspiration from the (First) Persian Empire and will connect them in some form to the 'Great Empire of the Dawn' that was a mythic realm established on all the land between the Bones and the Grey Waste, from the Shivering Sea to the Jade Sea. Google it. After the 'Long Night' the Empire was not reborn, but it's people scattered. Our 'Empire' will claim decadence from that era; although that is just a legend.

* * *

 **Chapter 19: Setting Sail**

"Gods," a voice cursed. "this ones heavy."

"Your imagining things." A second voice replied.

"I bloody am not!"

"What's all this then?" A new third voice arrived, this one familiar.

"Nothing much, Will."

"You need a brake Torr?" The voice of Will replied. "Perhaps we should delay the trip, hm? I'm sure your tired arms could find a whore or two to rest with..."

At that the boys world came crashing down, literally, causing him to yelp.

"Did that crate just talk?" Will asked.

"I'm not _that_ drunk." Another voice replied.

"You've been drinking!?" Torr asked, angered. "We're on the job you-"

"Gentlemen," Will was laughing. "I think we should focus on the important things in life. Like, for example, talking crates..."

A moment of silence passed before a blinding light forced the boy to cover his eyes.

"Dorren Stark." The voice of Will chastised.

"I-" The boy looked up his uncles face, a smirk quickly braking through his hardened expression.

"Come to see me off eh boy?" Will remarked with his smirk growing wide. "You could've done it in a less amusing manner, I must say."

"I'm sorry uncle." Dorren lowered his head after stepping out of the crate.

"You'd smell less of fish too." Willam kept talking, seemingly to himself.

"I thought-"

"That you'd sneak onto my ship and and reveal yourself when we arrived in Westeros?"

Dorren's face grew red.

"You've courage, lad." Willam ruffled his nephews hair, much to his annoyance.

"Take me with you uncle!" Dorren pleaded.

"This is not a trip for children."

"I'm almost five-and-ten!" Dorren protested. "I could help scrub the deck... or-"

"I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you lad." Willam turned uncharacteristically serious as his stern eyes burned into his nephew. "This is not some voyage to the empire or even mossovy. Where I'm going I may never return from Dorren. It's bloody dangerous and near foolish, my father is not wrong in this..."

"I could protect you!" Dorren looked up, tears forming, despite his effort to fight them.

"I don't doubt it." Willam sighed. "But what of your cousins? Who will protect them if your off adventuring with your foolish uncle?"

"They-"

"They'll need you." Willam smiled at his nephew.

"Father looks after them."

"Your father is a warrior," Willam countered. "not a bodyguard. There is a difference."

"It's not fair."

"No." Willam laughed bitterly, as his men re-sealed the crate that had acted as Dorren's hiding place and took it onto the deck of Will's ship. "Life is rarely that, I fear. That is why you must remain here lad, to protect the family when my brothers cannot. Can you do this for me or can you not?"

At the challenge, Dorren wiped away his growing tears and gave a stern nod.

"Good." Willam ruffled his nephews hair once more.

"You'll come back to us right?!" Dorren called out as Willam walked away towards his ship.

He turned back around with a smirk, his face fleshy and skinless. "I always come back."

Dorren awoke in a panic to the sound of a low growl. Removing the image of his uncle from his mind he begrudgingly pulled himself up from his slumber, his eyes quickly adjusting to the rays of sun that shun though his window and onto the floors. Fang, his grey wolf and constant companion, laid on the foot of his bed seemingly ready to pouch as he growled at the door hungrily. Something was amiss.

"What is it boy?" Dorren asked, curious and concerned in equal measure.

Fang tensed as his master got out from his bed and reached for the sword that he kept at the bedside, always within arms reach. The noises had died down, Fang noted, but the smell of blood still clung to the air in the hallway outside his masters room. He'd awoken alerted to the sound. His master had slept until now, blissful in his ignorance.

"Come on," Dorren moved towards the door with bare steel in his hand, knuckles were white as he gripped the blade. "let's see-"

The door opened to reveal a man of age with his late grandfather, a man Dorren knew to be Brandon Seastark, Lord of Salt and Sea, Master of Ships and ultimately one of the most powerful men around. Lord Seastark had the sandy hair and stormy grey eyes of his kinsmen. "Prince Dorren." The Lord spoke calmly as if nothing was wrong, despite that obviously not being the case. That blood was not his. "Your father requests your presence in the throne room. If you would follow me..."

"What is this, my lord?" Dorren glared at the older man, veteran of several campaigns against the Empires enemies. He was the friend and trusted commander of his grandfather, Brandon VII Stark, and now he stood seemingly oblivious to the fresh blood on his full-plate armor and red staining on his face and arms.

"There has been an," Seastark paused. "incident. Your father is waiting for you."

Dorren's eyes bolted to the guards that flanked Seastark. Stark men. He knew a few of them and now struggled to recall the names of- "Ronnel, is it?" Dorren asked quickly while keeping a firm eye on Seastark. The guard named Ronnel gave a nod in reply to his prince. "What has happened? That is a lot of blood..."

The man looked to Seastark, then Dorren. He seemed far more hesitant. Afraid, of the old sea wolf.

He spoke only after Seastark failed to stop him. "There were assassins, my prince."

"Assassins?! Dorren growled, as Fang growled in equal measure.

"Aye," Ronnel once more looked to the sea wolf. "your father-"

"Your father is waiting for us in the throne room, boy." Seastark interrupted, the sharpness of his voice causing Ronnel to take a step back.

"Is he alright?" Dorren asked as his voice began to become panicked. "And my mother?!"

"Fine and fine, boy." Seastark took a step back and held a arm out the side. "This way, if you will."

Dorren thought on his options, looking down at Fang. _"It could be a trap."_ The possibility was there, however slim, although he doubted that Brandon Seastark of all people would betray his friends sons. House Seastark held family above everything and Lord Brandon had shed more blood for Winterhold than most living men.

"Lead the way, my lord."

Seastark strode down the hallway like a man haft his age, forcing the young Stark to keep pace.

"I-" Dorren thought of something to say. "Are your wounds healing well my lord?"

Seastark grunted. "Takes more than a flea bite to stop me, boy." The remark caused Dorren to shy away, the man clearly wished to walk in silence. The wound he spoke of was acquired on Rodrik's Conquest of the islands before Ibben. Lord Sestark lead the assault on one of the largest islands, giving chase to some natives into dense jungle that proved to be a mistake. Inside the trees and bush he lost a handful of men and was bitten numerous times by the locals before finally slaying them. He was sent home afterwards.

"And your son?" Dorren asked hesitantly. "I hear he's leading-"

"Your father is inside." Lord Seastark stopped abruptly at the doorway to the Great Hall.

"Thank you." Dorren bowed his head quickly before pushing open the door.

The first thing Dorren noticed were the bodies. Those of dark skinned men with darker hair laying in pools of crimson at the foot of his uncles throne with various gashes and in the case of one, short a head. "I am not a patient man," the voice of his father grabbed his attention away from the corpses. He sat atop the throne with a bloodied sword in his lap and a dangerous snarl on his lips. "you will speak now, envoy, or I will force the words from your throat with my own hands..."

The envoy, a man Dorren recalled meeting just yesterday, was on his knees practically kissing the cold stone floors.

"You come into my home." Artos Stark growled, sitting up from his brothers throne.

"I-" The envoy stuttered, still bowed with his head against the stone. "I never-"

"You never what?!"

"Never-"

"You never expected to be caught?!" Atros spat, having walked down the steps. "You never expected me to cut these pathetic rats down?" He motioned his sword at the bodies and littered the steps of the throne. "You insult me, envoy. Sending so few of your desert rats to best me? I don't recall ever being so insulted..."

"My Prince-"

Artos held the mans chin up with the tip of his blade. "I should kill you for the insult alone."

"Mercy!" The envoy cried, wide-eyed and afraid.

"Mercy?" Artos noticed his son standing at the back of the hall, and his anger returned tenfold. "You'd have sent blades after my son,you rat, would you not have? My wife too? My nephew and nieces? How many pelts would you have claimed, little rat, had I not been wise to your ploy?"

The envoy said nothing.

"Answer me!" Artos brought down his sword, cutting open the envoys cheek and sending him back to the stone.

Again, the envoy said nothing, clutching at his new wound as it bled profusely.

"Perhaps our rat will speak to me?" A voice came from the shadow of Rodrik's throne, clad in attired that made him stand out as being from the empire. Light leather yet with embroidery that put him apart from any commoner. "You know my face, little sand rat?" The man asked, his skin a light bronze, a genuine smile on his lips.

"P- Prince Sargon." If the envoy was scared before, he was now terrified.

"Ah," The foreign princes smile grew larger. "good to know your not _entirely_ incompetent. This is good news."

Artos ignored the princeling and kept his gaze on the envoy. "You can picture my confusion, rat, when your Prince arrived in the night with quite the tale to tell. A tale of assassins, envoys and daggers in the night." Artos moved his sword back to the mans throat. "It's at _his_ mercy that you yet draw breath..."

"And I thank you for allowing it, my friend."

Artos scoffed. It was out of thanks that he'd left the envoy alive.

"Now," The foreign princes smile turned dark. "you and I have _much_ to discuss."

Dorren watched as the foreigner dragged the envoy by his neck and tossed him towards the doorway where two guards dressed in attire similar to the princes own processed to grab the man by his arms and escort him from the hall. The foreigner winked at Dorren as he passed, eyes black as the void with a darker smirk on his lips.

 _"Did he just wink at me?"_ Dorren raised an eyebrow at the thought, the empire was indeed odd sometimes...

"Lad." The voice of his father snapped him back to the present.

"Father." Dorren managed, forgetting the foreigner for now. "What was all this?"

"Prince Sargon arrived last night." Artos explained with a sigh. "Under the cover of night, almost killed the fool when he awoke me."

"He woke you?"

"Aye," Artos chuckled. "the bastard somehow got into the keep unnoticed."

"And he-"

"He gave me this." Artos handed his son a letter, the black seal of the Empire already opened.

The letter was signed by the Emperor himself, detailing a plot to remove Artos from power and ensure that the Islands were in no position to assist the Empire and interfere with the rebellions 'just cause'. It was ironic, actually, as they had likely just succeeded in doing the opposite of what they aimed to prevent. "Fools." Dorren said aloud.

"Read the end." Artos scowled.

"I have sent men to inform King Rodrik and..."

"And prevent his assassination." Artos interrupted. "The bastards sought to crippled us."

"Is uncle alright?" Dorren asked, the concern evident in his voice. "Is mother!?"

"Your uncle can handle himself, lad." Artos clasped his son on the shoulder. "And your mother too for that matter, she and the others are well and good. Thanks to the Princeling we managed to kill the bastards before they could do so much as draw steel. I killed most of the rats myself when they came for me..."

"But-" Dorren's eyes darted to the throne and the corpses that littered it.

"I was the bait." Artos explained. "They 'caught' me alone on the throne and we caught them in return."

"My Prince." The voice of Lord Seastark interrupted father and son. "We should clear up the dead and send word."

Artos looked to the man. "As you say, my lord."

Lord Seastark motioned with a wave of his hand and a number of guardsmen began dragging the dead rats from the hall, leaving behind trails of blood for the servants to worry about later. Seastark himself exited the hall to rally everyone able for the coming conflict. The Islands numbers were far from ideal, what with Rodrik away, but they still had teeth. It would be enough. Never in the history of the Islands had more than a thousand men been sent to aid the Empire, because they'd never asked for more.

* * *

Ghost smelled something familiar among the bounty of smells that assaulted his senses upon arrival to this new place, humans, brews, breads, salt and fish to name but a few, the smell that struck him most was clouded in mussels, cockles, and clams, but he remembered the smell behind it well. It reminded him of his pack, back when he was a pup. They were lost to him now, although he could sense his sister singing to the moon with her cousins and his brother fighting a horned horse. The others, Ghost could not sense, for one reason or another. Ghost, much like his master, had not liked the great water at first... but it had brought him to this old smell... so he did not complain all that much.

His own pack of grey cousins had given chase shortly after he left the humans at the water, keeping a respectful distance, while they would never see him as leader over the masters of their own they knew enough to not overstep. It was the natural order of things, Ghost was the strongest, although far outnumbered by the grey cousins. The smell of mussels and clams grew stronger as he bounded onward, humans on the street backing off in caution or outright fleeing into their dens out of fear; doubtless the sight of his new pack was a sight unseen to them in this new place. He ignored them and focused on his target, a fresh clean smell, just like the big water. He was close now.

He found the smell, an abandoned cart filled with the fresh smells. The greys stood, confused, vigilant towards any potential danger as if it was their duty to stand guard against any and all things. Ghost inspected the ground, quickly finding the sent of his target. He bolted down an alleyway after the sent, his cousins following. He was close. So close...

"G- Ghost?" His target stuttered, as he pounced at her to cease the struggle.

He licked the little pup, to show he had not forgotten, and because he was happy. The pup was taller than his minds eye recalled. The same pup with a long face, grey eyes, and brown hair that his master called pack. Ghost looked around for his sister, hopeful, but dismissed the notion quickly. He could not smell her. No. She was far away from here.

* * *

Cregan noticed something off about his traveling companion, as he, his brothers lords and a handful of guards walked through the halls of The Sealord's Palace. It was the seat of Ferrego Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos, located on a small peninsula in the northeast of the Free City at the eastern end of the Purple Harbor. It was a ways north of the Moon Pool, a great fountain that had shown Cregan's party how the higher class of the city lived. They were a kind people, great lovers of song. Wealthy Braavosi dressed in charcoal greys, purples or blues so dark that are almost black, and blacks as dark as moonlight. Sword-wielding bravos, in contrast, dressed in flamboyant colors.

The Sealord's Palace on approach boasted domes and towers. A golden thunderbolt turning on a spire atop the palace. All in all, the city was truly a sight.

"Something funny, lad?" Cregan asked as they walked through the hallway.

"Hm?" Jon snapped to attention.

"You were grinning like a fool."

"I-" Jon hesitated. "I didn't notice."

Cregan rolled his eyes and kept walking, it was a look he knew too well. The same look Willam got when he beheld a new sight.

"He will see you now." A armed braavosi spoke, stepping aside and allowing Cregan inside.

The room was large and richly furnished. Far beyond anything Winterhold could boast... but Cregan couldn't help but be grateful for that much as the room was foul with a smell of smoke clinging to the air and the flowering colors made him nauseous. "They say it's good for the lungs," a voice greeted them. "but personally I believe they are trying to choke me to an early grave..."

"They?" Cregan asked the man, dressed in a dark grey that was almost black trimming with silver outlay.

"The healers." The man walked to a chair and took a seat, seeming glad for the comfort.

"Ferrego Antaryon?" Cregan asked of the man. He was old in his years, grey hairs and a sickly disposition.

"Not what you were expecting?"

"I-" Cregan began.

"No," Antaryon waved him off. "it's true. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"None of us are." Is the first thing that Cregan thought to say. He was no diplomat.

Thankfully, the Sealord laughed, rather than taking offence. His laughter turned to a cough and clear annoyance at his health.

"So," Antaryon asked. "what can I do for you?"

"My brother-"

"The slayer of women and children."

"He-"

"Save me the excuses." Antaryon scowled. "I hear the tales as well as anyone else. Ibben sacked and slaughtered to a man. A great wolf king eating his enemies without mercy and looking west for more prey to satisfy his unending hunger. Allow me to warn you, Cregan Snow, that your king will find no easy prey this far across the water..."

Cregan returned a scowl of his own. "My brothers intentions are peaceful."

"Peaceful?" The old Sealord laughed, and once more coughed up a storm.

"Wolves are fierce when provoked, my lord."

"Oh?" The old man doubted. "And what did Ibben do to provoke you, hm?"

"Those savages murdered the Prince!" One of the lords flanking Cregan replied, a hand gripping his sword tightly.

"And was that before or after you conquered their homeland?"

Cregan glared at the man, knowing it was true enough, he could not fault the Ibbenese for defending themselves. And yet nor could he fault Rodrik for seeing them as nothing but a potential threat to his kingdom and it's people. "A ruler must go what's in the best interests of his people." Cregan quoted his father. "Or he is no ruler at all."

"And slaughtering them was in your best interested, was it?"

"Yes." Was all the replied Cregan gave, maintaining eye contact with the old man.

"And war with Lorath?"

"Was not." Cregan said simply. "And neither is war with Braavos."

The Sealord remained silent for what seemed like an eternity. "Your not like the Starks from the West."

Jon, whom had kept silent thus far, took the most notice of those words.

"I hear they held honor above all things," A thin smile appeared on his lips. "but look where that got them I suppose..."

"What of them?" Cregan asked before Jon could say a thing.

"You haven't heard?" Antaryon seemed surprised.

Cregan said nothing as he waited for the man to explain.

"No," he sighed. "I don't suppose you would have so far east. I'm afraid your distant kinsmen are dead."

"Dead?" The word hit Jon in the gut, not realizing he'd said it aloud. It repeated itself relentlessly in his thoughts.

"Dead!" Cregan replied much the same as Jon, with more bite than whimper.

At the sound of raise voices, several armed braavosi stepped forward. Antaryon waved them off with a look.

"It's the talk of the city." Antaryon explained. "Westeros has been in turmoil for some time, but barely a week past word arrived of what the westerosi are calling a Red Wedding. A nasty piece of business, if you ask me, killing guests at a wedding of all things. As if the prospect of marriage to a single women is not a daunting enough prospect."

"My father!" Jon spat, having shook himself out of his shocked state and stepped in front of Cregan. "Where is Lord Stark!?"

If Antaryon was angered by the demand he did not show it, as one of the sealords guards drew steel against the boys throat before anyone in the room could do so much as blink. Watching the turn of events with a sour look Antaryon got up from his seat and poured himself another drink. "Robert Stark's dead, along with his mother and his men."

"Robb..." Jon whimpered, the braavosi blade still against his throat.

"Robb!" Antaryon smiled at remembering, raising his chalice up for a moment. "Yes, that's the name. My apologies."

"And lord Eddard Stark?" Cregan clasped Jon on the shoulder and shoved him back towards friendlier steel. "What of him?"

"Beheaded for treason by the good King Joffrey." Antaryon replied with no hesitation, taking a sip of wine.

Jon stared blankly at the old man and Cregan could see plainly the anger, hurt, confusion and overwhelming doubt in his eyes. "Take the boy back to the ships." Cregan spoke to his men. "Give him water and something to eat. I'll be there shortly." They followed the orders, taking a practically lifeless Jon out of the room and back to the docks.

"I must say," Antaryon watched as the boy was lead out. "he took the news hard. One so young should not trouble himself so much with such distant relations."

"Eddard Stark was his father." Cregan explained.

The Sealord lowered his chalice ever so slightly. "Ah, I see. You must give the lad my apologies."

"Willam Stark."

Antaryon kept a blank expression.

"Have you heard the name?"

Antaryon shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Who is he to you?"

"My brother." Cregan explained.

"Hm." The old man thought for a moment. "What are your plans then, Lord Cregan?"

What _were_ his plans? Cregan had no clue what to do with all this information. Eddard Stark dead. Robb Stark dead. Assuming the Sealord was not lying to them, that is. _"Willam."_ His mind focused. He would have to find Willam, somehow, and bring him home. Nothing had changed. "I must find my brother and bring him home..."

"I'm afraid your kinsmen is likely dead."

"No." Cregan refused. "He lives."

Antaryon smirked knowingly. "I wish you the best of luck then."

"Concerning my brother..."

"Rodrik?" Antaryon assumed. "Yes, yes. You may tell him we have an accord."

Cregan moved to leave the room without a word, anxious to find Willam.

"Will you not stay for a drink?" Antaryon called out to the man, but he'd already left. "I'll take that as a no then. Rude. Just plain rude is what that was." The old Sealord drank deeply from his chalice and walked over to his balcony overlooking the city. Today had proven interesting, and he was glad to have gotten some fresh entertainment.


	20. Chapter 20: The Will of Gods

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Reviews/Notes: Points to whomever can figure out where the inspiration came from for the first haft of this chapter. Is from two separate things. That out of the way, we explore Mossovy in some more detail. It's a broad, forested region of northeastern Essos just south of the Thousand Islands and very little is known about it beyond it being a land of shapechangers and demon hunters. Here where it gets embellished to all seven hells! Shapechangers? This is where I got the idea/origin for Lyarra's powers and subsequently brought in the Old Gods, since it's a forrest, and they are known for similar abilities. Demon Hunters? There is nothing on this beyond the name but the natives of the Thousand Islands have been called 'demons' in the past. It's also possible that Demons refers to the Others and we may play that angle down the road.

The Thousand Islands were once home to a long dead civilization and the natives are utterly terrified of the water to the point that they'll die before they even step into the sea. There is a theory (I wont go into great detail) that the Others can cross oceans. We also know that they attacked so far as Yi Ti during the Long Night. It's not too great a stretch to think that, whatever civilization was on the Thousands Islands, it was wiped out during the Long Night. This being said. Are the Sunset Islands safe?

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 **Chapter 20: The Will of Gods**

 _"And who am I to defy the will of gods?"_ Rodrik Stark thought. He was a prince once. A king now. A man still, first and foremost, as mortal as any other despite what his reputation may claim. He'd never cared for the opinion of others. He'd never once balked when they called him Ruthless or other such titles. So long as his people were safe, his reputation was meaningless. That was the answer. He was nothing but a footnote in history and a pawn to the will of the Old Gods. Accepting as much as been difficult.

His sister had been a crucial instrument in this. Without her, he'd never have found himself sailing away from his terribly uncomfortable golden throne on Ibben to visit the grim, grey forests of Mossovy. His lords had protected, naturally, but none dared to question his brothers capability to lead in Rodrik's absence. And so he found himself walking alone thought a narrow path thick with mud and leaves and all manner of things that got themselves stuck in his hair. He'd long since abandoned his cloak along the path.

He did not know in this instance if he should thank or curse his dear sister. And yet, once again, who was he to question the will of gods?

Using his shield to protect his eyes from the many low-hanging branches, he found himself stumbling forward into a truly massive clearing. At it's center stood the largest Heart Tree he'd ever laid eyes on, old and twisted, it's roots going deep into the crystalline lake and surrounded it's base; a narrow natural walkway leading to it's trunk.

"Stark." A voice grabbed his attention, as pure as winter air with none of the bite.

Looking down, he laid eyes on what appeared to be a small child with nut-brown skin, dappled like a deer's with paler spots. The child had large ears and larger mossy green eyes slitted like those of a common cat. They reminded him of his sisters eyes, in a way. The child reached out and offered it's hand as it muttered words in what Rodrik assumed to be the True Tongue. His sister had mentioned it but could not speak it, and could never find the words to describe it. Other than saying that it sounded sad.

Rodrik took the child's hand and counted three fingers and a thumb, with sharp black claws instead of nails. More children seemed to rush through the forest around them, slight, quick, and surprisingly graceful. The child holding his hand lead him across the natural walkway to the great tree. It seemed to smile as it abandoned him there.

"I-" Rodrik muttered uncertainly as he stood beneath the great tree. He was being watched. It seemed, by more eyes than were present.

"Rodrik Stark." A more human voice introduced itself, this one tall, dressed entirely from head to heel in an flowing robe of green cloth, sewn together in such a way as to make it look like a dress of leaves. His belt was like bark, and in the darkness of his hood Rodrik saw a mask as white as bone, covering his entire face...aside from some haunting emerald green eyes. A second tall figure appeared, this one a women if the slimmer frame was any indication. She held a bronze dagger in her hand and carefully examined the great wierwood, then on one of the stronger branches that were closer to the ground she carefully pulled down one of the mature but still new parts, careful to avoid breaking it. Then, with the bronze knife in hand, she made a small round cut, then another two inches further up. "The gods have called, and you have answered. This is good."

"What would you have of me?" Is all that Rodrik could muster, his focus on the women now standing beside the man.

She stripped the flesh between the branch, deep enough to get to the true wood inside, making her hands sticky with crimson sap as she spoke words of the Old Tongue. She said something else as she reached into her robe - dagger vanishing into nothingness - and pulled out a simple wineskin. She then got her dagger again - saying the strange phrase before it appeared - and cut through the open part of the branch, uncorked the wineskin, then poured in a mixture of crimson sap and _something else._

Handing the skin to the man, he spoke with a grin. "You will drink."

Rodrik took the wineskin. "And _what_ will this do?"

The man kept his grin. "It will open your eyes."

Rodrik narrowed his eyes, recalling an old saying. "The Green Men say a lot of things, but only some of it makes sense. If it's important, we'll figure it out before long, and if it's truly important, they should just bloody well tell us about it." It was not the most poetic of sayings, true, but it spoke to what Rodrik was feeling right now.

"I cannot join your order." He said, eyeing the wineskin and wondering if the strange mixture tasted as bad as it smelled.

The green man shook his head. "And you will not." He explained, the grin still present.

"And yet I must drink?"

The green man simply gave a nod in reply.

With a sigh, Rodrik gave in and spoke aloud with a low growl. "Who am I to defy the will of gods..."

He drank. The strange mixture flowed down his throat, hot and sticky, like a thick porridge that tasted of ash and bark.

"You are nobody." The green man said.

"And yet." The women added.

"You are not." The man finished, as Rodrik collapsed to his knees, wide-eyed as the mixture seemed to burn at his throat and every inch of his body screamed as if he'd drank a bottle of liquid fire. The pain was like nothing he'd experienced. His blood boiled and his world turned red as he embraced the cold, and yet oddly comfortable forest floor.

In the darkness he heard many voices.

"Will he wake?"

He saw men with weapons of bronze and the children he'd encountered before all surrounded by a canopy of crimson, shaking hands reluctantly.

"Have faith, sister."

Rodrik found himself blinded by the sun, a dead horse to his side, and a great bloodied hammer in his hand as a man armored in plate steel charged forward to strike him down. He almost without thought brought the hammer up and crushed the chestplate of the foe with great ease. Looking around, the distance was blured, only those close to him in focus. "Die!" Another foe charged him. The knights strikes came swift, the man was skilled, but Rodrik seemed to know every move he'd make as if he'd fought the battle before and won it a hundred times. In what seemed like moments the knight was dead, his great-helm crushed like a grape.

"It's his destiny." A voice spoke, echoing in Rodrik's head.

He found himself falling to his knees a moment later, pierced by several blades and bleeding profusely. His hammer fell to the mud and splintered like driftwood.

"We've said that before." Another voice spoke.

He saw a women with long brown hair, kissing a man who's hair shun silver in the rays of moonlight that broke through the weirwoods surroundeding them.

"Winter is Coming." Another voice rang in his skull, far louder than the others, as he saw a man with raven black hair and steel grey eyes sitting upon a monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and twisted metal. At the feet of the great throne stood seven faceless sentinels that seemed to eye him as a threat. Then, he opened his eyes.

His head hurt something fierce as he held himself up from the forest floor and looked up at the faces looking down at him with cold stares. "What did you-" Rodrik muttered, struggling to his feet. "What was that poison!?" If the children or the green men were in the slightest concern with his anger, they did not show any hint of it.

"No poison." The green man spoke.

"A gift." The women smiled.

It was the children that stepped forward, two of them holding something large wrapped in leaves and twigs. With grace that continued to surprise him the children placed the wrapping on the flood and stepped backwards. _"A gift?"_ Rodrik thought, his anger settled. He was confused at what he found. "An axe?"

Under the wrapping was a large two-headed battleaxe covered in numerous runes that Rodrik could not read.

"A _wooden_ axe?" Rodrik asked, conflicted between appearing ungrateful and feeling cheated.

"Take it." The Green Man spoke. "Take up the axe, and strike at your shield."

"That's solid steel..."

The Green Man said nothing.

Rodrik muttered a curse under his breath, wrapping his hands around the axe and swinging with all his might at the steel shield that laid on the ground. He expect the axe to shatter and could picture the smug look he'd use when he told them how wood could not best steel. That however was not the outcome he achieved.

There was no shattering or splinting of wood. The axe, it seemed, was perfectly fine. The shield however was another story.

"Impossible." Rodrik said aloud, eyes darting from the axe to the shield. Now cut clean in haft like no blade would ever have achieved

"A gift." The Green Man spoke once more, a wide grin on his lips.

Looking down at the axe, Rodrik studied it in greater detail. It was weirwood of various shades, darker in the center and lighter where the steel edge would have been in any ordinary axe. This was no ordinary axe, that much was certain, with the sharpness and density of a diamond Rodrik knew it would _never_ break. And if the shield was any indication it would slice through any foe with ease. If he had to describe it in so many words, he'd describe it as being like an extension of his own arm.

The runes caved into the wood were a dark red, like blood, or the sap of a weirwood. Almost like the axe itself was wounded.

"This weapon is the second of it's kind." The Green Man explained.

"The other had less edge," The Women added. "and it's champion failed."

The man seemed disappointed for a moment, but did not move to correct the women.

"With this you must go West."

"And then North."

"As far North as North goes."

"The cold winds are rising."

"Winter is Coming."

Through the volley of voices speaking in tandem, the last grabbed Rodrik's attention.

"Why me?" He asked, still eyeing the axe. It felt weightless in his hands, like he could wield it with only one hand if he wished.

The women answered, with words his sister had spoken before. "The Gods will it."

 _"And who am I to defy the will of gods?"_ Rodrik thought once more, and the women seemed to read his thoughts in that instance. The children began to vanish back into the trees, leaving the clearing empty as even the man and women departed without another word. Rodrik was left speechless under the gaze of the gods.

As he stood there with his eyes locked on the great heart tree, endless questions flowing in his head, the snap of a branch grabbed his attention and caused him to turn in an instant to face the one responsible. Rodrik lowered his guard as he recognized the mans face. "You were always a shit hunter, Mormont."

"Always been more of a fisherman, Your Grace." Mormont replied with a smirk.

Rodrik walked over to the man, lowering his new axe to his side and holding it with one arm with great ease.

"Is everything alright?" Mormont asked, clear concern in his voice.

"Aye." Rodrik clasped the man on his shoulder. "I told you not to worry old friend. I've only been gone for an hour or so."

Mormont's smile died, eyes darting to the numerous guards that had followed behind him.

Something was wrong. "What is it?" Rodrik asked simply, unknowingly tightening his grip on the axe.

"You-" Mormont hesitated.

"Spit it out man!"

"You've been gone well over a day..."

 _"A day?"_ Rodrik thought, wide-eyed, his smirk fading. "Impossible."

He'd departed from the ship barely an hour past, he recalled. The clearing in the woods had not been as large a tourney as he feared at the time. _"Was I unconscious for so long?"_ It didn't seem like it... but why would Mormont lie to him? He'd known the Lord of Long Island since he was a boy and trusted him with his life.

"-and just just now we found an opening, that I swear wasn't there before."

Mormont had been speaking while he was deep in through, it seemed.

"Thank the gods we found you." Mormont looked genuinely revealed.

"They opened the path, m'lord." One of Mormonts men spoke out.

"Aye," Another added. "I seen it too. The roots... moved..."

Lord Mormont didn't seem to disagree with them, opting to focus on the large and equally strange axe in his friends hand.

"A unique weapon, Your Grace." He eyed it with some suspicion and clearly didn't wish to offened his king by asking the obvious question. A wooden axe was the plaything of a child and Mormont knew all too well that Rodrik went into those woods with a sword and shield of fine make. Had his king been in some struggle and been disarmed?

"Unique?" Rodrik could've laughed at that. "Aye," he replied instead with a cold tone. "that's certainly one word for it."

"How did you come by it?" Mormont asked, naturally curious as to the origins. The rune carvings caught his eye.

Rodrik replied with a smirk, looking down at the axe and wondering if all of this was some strange dream. "The will of gods."

* * *

It was moments like this that made Cregan beyond grateful for having nothing to inherit or any of the responsibility and duties that went with such things. He had a sword. Swords were so much similar things to hold than titles, lands and duty. That being said, he still found himself in situations like this. He hated his family sometimes.

"We should sail to this King's Landing place and teach the bastards a lesson!"

"Burn their fleets at anchor!"

"Or get burnt ourselves in the doing?"

"You dare question the Winter Fleets strength Sunstark?!"

"I question the wits of the fools sailing on it, aye!"

"Stark blood has been shed!"

"Prince Willam could be in danger!"

"He could be dead!"

At that, Cregan slammed a fist on the hard oaken table. It silenced the room as one by one the lords ceased bickering.

"My brother lives." Cregan stated as fact.

"As you say," Lord Greystark agreed. "Lady Lyarra has confirmed it!"

There was muttered agreement and a singular snort from Sunstark.

"We cannot sail on King's Landing." Cregan said, and waited patiently for-

"We cant sit and do nothing!"

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"They are no match for us!"

There it was, as expected. "My lords. We are at haft strength and, although my brother lives, we do not know his location. It is doubtless that he'd have ridden to war with his kinsmen rather than stay idle in the North." There were numerous nods of agreement at that. "He may be a captive in King's Landing, for all we know..."

"And it would endanger the Prince to attack them so." Greystark realized, mentally hitting himself for being so rash.

"Aye." Cregan sighed. "I understand the desire for swift jsutice, my lords, but let us not go declaring war just yet."

"We would need King Rodrik's word," Sunstark added. "not the word of hotheaded fools and the kings haft-brother!"

Cregan showed no emotion at the insult of being called 'haft'. It was true, after all, and he knew that Greystark would jump to his defense.

"His Grace sent him to act on his behalf, Sunstark."

"As an envoy," Sunstark snarled. "not a bloody commander. I'll not sail anywhere without the _Kings_ orders."

"You don't-"

"Lord Sunstark is right." Cregan interrupted, silencing whatever counter Greystark had in mind. "We cannot, and will not, make any act of aggression with my brothers word. To do such would not only be treason but could enraged the life of Prince Willam. No, my lords. I'm afraid we shall not sail to war just yet..."

"We must save the Prince!"

"Send word to His Grace!"

Once more, Cregan raised a hand to interrupt. His father had always let his lords have a say regardless of how pointless, nonsensical, greedy or shortsighted most of their views could be. It was the burden of leadership, his father would say, to hear the crying of ones lords and decide upon the best course for the future of ones holdings.

The land, and the future of it's people, would always come first. No matter how muddy the path to victory may be. "You will sail back to Ibben."

"To Ibben!?"

"Are we to flee like dogs?"

"I'm no craven!"

"We cant abandon he Prince!"

"I will _NOT_ abandon my brother!" Cregan snarled. "However, I cannot start a war on his behalf. I require a handful of volunteers to remain behind with me..."

The lords looked between themselves, and unsurprising it was Greystark to offer first.

"My son will remain!" Lord Greystark said proudly. "To whatever end, he and however many men you require."

"You have a plan, Prince Snow?" Lord Sunstark asked.

"I will sail to Whiteharbor." Cregan began. "The lord there, Manderly, is known as one of Winterfells most trusted banners and Prince Willam and I spent a great amount of time there. It was from there that I departed Westeros. If anyone knows where your Prince is now, it'll be him."

"Hm." Sunstark nodded, finding no fault with the plan.

"Can they be trusted?" One lord asked, gaining some shared looks of concern.

"They owe the Starks a great debt, my brother told me." Cregan explained. "I believe they can be trusted."

"With all due respect," Greystark hesitated. "you lack the surname Cregan. What if a haft-stark is not enough for him?"

"I'll bring another haft to make a hole."

"The boy." Greystark said, understanding.

"Aye, the Bastard of Winterfell will accompany me."

"And the girl?" Sunstark asked, curious. "Taking her there would risk more Stark blood."

Again, Cregan ignored the veiled insult, as if his blood was less-stark and therefore less important. _"He's not wrong."_ He thought, once again finding he could not disagree with the man. He spoke of Arya Stark, the youngest daughter of the late Eddard Stark, whom Jon Snow's wolf had conveniently discovered. Cregan smirked at that turn of events. Upon returning to the docks he'd been greeted by a bickering Greystark and Sunstark; a sight he dismissed as perfectly normal at first glance.

"AM TOO!" Is the first thing Cregan saw, the voice coming from a small girl. She was looking up at Sunstark with a snarl on her face.

"Prince Cregan!" Greystark had been the first to hail him upon his return, storming over with some degree of purpose.

"Greystarks finally lost his senses!" Sunstark had declared with a roll of his eyes.

"The girl has the eyes," Greystark defended himself. "and the spirit too. I swear-"

"She's a bloody urchin looking for a gullible fool."

"Found one too." Sunstarks son added quickly with a smirk.

"She-"

"I'm Arya Stark!" The girl in question shouted, running back up to Lord Sunstark and showing her fangs.

"Your nothing but a lowborn little-"

The sound of growling was no stranger to these men, but this, was far deeper and far more dangerous.

"Ghost!" The voice of Jon Snow came from the deck of the ship where the wolf had appeared from to Sunstarks shock.

"Put this mutt on a leach if you cant train it, Snow!"

"Apologies, Lord Su-"

"JON!" The girl tackled him before he could finish.

"A- Arya?" Jon stuttered, wide-eyed as he looked down at the messy brown hair and grey eyes brimming with tears.

The girl processed to cry into the boys clothing, refusing to cease the hug she'd trapped him in.

"Snow." Cregan raised an eyebrow. "A friend of yours?"

Cregan knew the name Arya Stark and recalled a skinny girl of nine or ten but he'd never spoken a word to her at Winterfell.

"Ghost found me." He heard the girl said between sobs, still clinging to her supposed brother. Cregan was more inclined to trust that. He knew better than to think a direwolf was nothing more than a mindless beast. A warg had to forge a lasting bond with such creatures, much like a marriage. A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf. Ghost had not decided to randomly returned a lowborn street urchin to them without cause, nor would he be acting so protective of her...

Jon swore the girl was who she claimed to be, after the girl brought forward a small sword of castle-forged steel that she called 'needle' while boasting of having kept it safe all this time. Ghost, Jon and the sword was enough proof for Cregan to accept it. Greystark had already accepted it. And Sunstark shook his head and chuckled.

"Nonsense!" He cursed, face flushed red. "I-"

"So quick to doubt." The voice of Lyarra silenced the angered lord.

"A bloody needle and those eyes do not-"

Lyarra held the girls chin up with her index finger, taking her by surprise as the newest stranger stared into her eyes.

"Welcome to the Winter Fleet, little wolf." Lyarra smiled. The girl blinked.

"You cannot just-"

"I cannot what?" Lyarra's smile vanished as her emerald eyes burnt holes into her prey.

Looking back Cregan couldn't help but chuckle at how quickly Sunstark shut his mouth when met with a few stares and a scary tone. He couldn't have ever gotten that reaction. _"It's those eyes."_ He thought, looking to his sister whom sat to the right of him with a empty expression. _"They flare when she's angry."_

It was said that when one joined the Green Men you traded your own eyes so that the gods could see through you. Old fables, no doubt, but still...

"The girl returns with you." Cregan decided there and then. "If the news from the West is even haft true, then Winterfell is not yet safe for any Stark."

Lyarra smirked at that, fading away quickly enough that none noticed apart from her brother.

 _"If it's important, we'll figure it out before long."_ Cregan muttered, to his sisters muted amusement.

"I'll not allow the Greystarks to claim all the glory." Sunstark growled at his rival. "I'll follow you, Prince Snow."

Cregan gave a thankful nod. Sunstark was more a bastard than he, true, but the man was reliable and a skilled swordsmen.

With both the branches in agreement it wasn't long before Cregan had a full crew of various men-at-arms and nobles all eager too be among the first to step foot back in Westeros; and return the lost Prince most like in hope of some reward. Cregan rolled his eyes, if anything Willam would curse them for dragging him home too soon.


	21. Chapter 21: The North Remembers

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Reviews/Notes: A small-ish chapter leading up to the campaign in the North. For some small state of reference, the War of the Five Kings began in 298AL and ended around 300AL. So it took place over the course of about 2 years give or take a few moths. It's been about that long since Cregan left White Harbor, returning now to bring Willam back home. Landing back in the North we'll begin to uncover the state of affairs from Winterfell to the Wall and everything between.

Please leave a review. I greatly appreciate the feedback. Like? Dislike? Hopes? Fears? Let me know.

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 **Chapter 21: The North Remembers**

The ship flew no flag, although it's size dwarfed anything White Harbor could boast, it would not do to have the ship flying the direwolf. All cities and ports, regardless of the lords allegiance, held it's fair share of spies. Making port here was no different than King's Landing. This way, if the spies reported anything, it wouldn't be of note.

Cregan stood on the bow of the ship, noting the heavily occupied Seal Rock. It was a massive stone dominating the approaches to the Outer Harbor, crowned with a ringfort of weathered stones of the First Men that stood desolate and abandoned when they'd left the harbor and Willam behind so long ago. However, the Manderlys had clearly fortified it with crossbowmen, scorpions, and spitfires. The stone loomed fifty feet above the waters, grey-green in color. Seals resting on it's rocks unfazed by the crashing waves.

The harbor itself was divided into the inner and outer harbors. The outer harbor was larger, but the inner harbor offered better anchorage and shelter by the city wall on one side and the looming mass of the Wolf's Den on another. A mile-long, thirty foot wall, with towers every hundred yards, is located on the jetty that separates the two harbors. "The Wolf's Den." Cregan spoke aloud as Ethan Greystark stood at his side, looking out at the ancient fortress that once served as his families home; now serving as a prison. It was located by the water and adjoined the city walls. Houses clung to it like barnacles on the walls of the Wolf's Den; one a brewhouse which Cregan knew to make well-regarded black beer. There was a godswood within the prison's walls too, one that Willam had visited on numerous occasions during his stay here.

The city itself was clean and well-ordered, with wide straight cobbled streets that made it easy to walk around. The houses were built of whitewashed stone, with steeply-pitched roofs of dark grey slate. A fish market sat between the outer harbor and the Seal Gate. Seafood available at White Harbor included whitefish, winkles, crabs, mussels, clams, herring, cod, salmon, lobster, and lampreys. Cregan was never a fan of seafood. The Islands had far too much of it. He'd take venison over it any day.

"Was it always so-"

"No." Cregan replied before Ethan could finish. The inner harbor was filed with some twenty or more war galleys of decent size. Although the ship they sailed on currently was large, a Snow class vessel, double decked with square rigged masts. She was not the finest in the Winter Fleet and these War Galleys almost matched her in size.

"Then the braavosi was not lying?"

Cregan hesitated. He'd been hoping it was nothing but tall tales watered down into nonsense as it went from person to person.

"This'll mean war." Ethan continued. "His Grace will not stand for this..."

Cregan said nothing to the young lad.

"Will he?" Ethan doubted for a moment.

"It'll depend." Cregan replied, eyes darting to watch as the ships crew ran about their duties and prepared to dock.

"On the Prince?" Ethan caught on quickly.

Cregan nodded as the breeze ran through his hair. Thing would depend on Willam, he knew, for say what you like about the youngest son of Prince Brandon Stark; he always had a natural talent for inspiring men and women alike. He never seemed to try, but people found it easy to follow his brother. _That's_ what worried him.

"Prince Cregan!" A voice grabbed his attention.

The first thing Cregan did was stare at his sister, whom was sitting on a crate cross-legged with a wide smile on her lips.

"We've a stowaway!" The man, one of Sunsstarks men by the looks of him, pushed a small boy forward.

"Arya Stark." Cregan sighed at the sight. He should have known better. Still, he blamed Lyarra.

Arya looked up at him with a mischievous grin.

"You knew this would happen." He accused her, ignoring the little girl.

Lyarra shrugged.

Cregan cursed under his breath.

"Do we turn the ship around, Prince?"

"No." Cregan waved off the crewman's question.

Arya's grin grew twice as large.

"Let's toss her overboard instead." The crewman suggested. Cregan doubted he was serious.

"WHAT?!" Arya screamed, wide-eyed.

"Agreed." Lord Sunstark replied.

"Nobody is going swimming." Cregan groaned, rubbing his forehead. He could _feel_ a headache coming along.

"Arya?!" The voice of Jon Snow joined the group that had begun to gather around the stowaway.

"It seems your sister is coming with us after all, Jon." Cregan once again shot his sister a stare that she shrugged off like it was nothing. "Your to keep her close and on this ship, least somebody recognize her and we end up with two Starks to locate rather than just the one. Think you can manage that lad?"

Jon nodded in reply, shooting a scolding look at his sister whom lowered her head under his gaze.

They docked without trouble but not without gathering attention. Cregan muttered to himself, "Should've borrowed a merchant vessel", as he walked down the plank on onto the pier where a number of the crew had already begun to disembark. Most were Ethans, men his father loaned the him for this little adventure. The others were Sunstarks, the lord himself and his true-born heir accompanying them. All were too busy admiring the view to bicker as they usually would; any feud forgotten for a moment at least.

"Prince Snow." Lord Sunstark walked up beside him, gruff as always.

"Report." Cregan replied bluntly, ignoring the mans stare at being ordered around.

"The wargs report an armed guard heading this way."

"As expected." Cregan muttered largely to himself. "What else?"

"There are more ships hidden up the northern river."

"The White Knife." Cregan said aloud, naming the river.

"They are preparing for conflict, but with who I could not say."

"Lannister." Cregan suggested. "Or Bolton or both..."

"Or they are building on the Boltons behalf."

Cregan shook his head. He doubted it.

"Such trust in these Manderlys of yours, Prince Snow."

"They owe the Starks." Cregan explained.

"Ah," Sunstark smirked knowingly. "because of Greystark treason. I recall now..."

As if he had forgotten. The look of horror on Lord Greystarks face when he learnt was matched only by Sunstarks growing smirk.

"Those traitors are dead." Ethan Greystark snarled, having overheard. "Is there a point to this or are you merely seeking to insult my-"

"My point," Sunstark snapped at the lad. "is that no doubt the Greystarks owed the Starks of Winterfell too. It didn't stop them rebelling."

Once again Sunstark had a point that Cregan couldn't argue against. He merely offered a pitted look as Ethan diverted his eyes from the man.

And, as predicted, the armed guard his wargs scouted had arrived. Dressed in Manderly attire the man leading them wore fine silver-colored armored plate with engravings like flowing seaweed. "Welcome to White Harbor." He sated cautiously, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "That's a fine vessel. What's your business here?"

Cregan took a step towards the man, causing his guards to ready themselves for a fight. "Ser Marson, was it?"

Marlon Manderly narrowed his eyes. "Marlon." He corrected.

"Ah," Cregan offered a smile to comfort the man. "forgive me. It had been some time..."

"We've met before?" Ser Marlon asked, doubtful. Cregan's smile faltered for a moment. He'd wager good coin the man would recall Willam's face.

"Aye," his smile returned as quickly as it had left. "Me and my brother came here to trade near two years ago."

Marlon eyed the vessel they'd arrived on. "I'd remember that ship."

"We arrived by foot," Cregan explained. "left by sea. My brother stayed behind with a girl he took a liking to."

Marlon went wide-eyed for a split moment as if recalling something important. He eyed Cregan for a minute before speaking, "You'll need papers if you intend to remain in the city for long. Times are hard and as they say, winter is coming." The guardsmen seemed confused by the sudden change in plan but did not question it.

"I'd say winter is here, Ser Marlon." Lyarra added her voice, seemingly showing up out of thin air.

"Aye," Marlon stared at the women like she reminded him of someone. "so it seems."

They were not lead to the Merman's Court as was expected, instead being abandoned with a simple "wait here" as Ser Marlon left them in a room that Cregan recalled all of a sudden. These were the girls chambers. Willam had spent more than a few nights here, Cregan knew, shaking his head at the thought.

"Willam was here." Lyarra spoke, absently walking across the room.

"How-"

She looked at him with a smile.

Cregan rolled his eyes, deciding it was best not to ask.

"My dear Wyn," Lyarra began. "we've camped across from the Twins as I write to you. Lord Frey, a pathetic man from what the men tell me, has closed his gates to us. I shouldn't discuss what I know of Robb's plans over raven but-"

"Willam wrote that?" Cregan asked, his sister reading from a open letter she'd found on a dresser beside the bed. The letter was well-read, that much was obvious, torn slightly on the edges and stained by water marks. Tears perhaps? He couldn't tell. The girl was smitten with his brother but to be crying over him? That did not bode well...

"It would appear so." Lyarra put the letter down, picking up another. "Victory. The first of many, I'd hope. Ser Jaime is our guest and with any luck he can be traded for Lord Stark's return. From what little they tell me of this Tywin lannister, he seems to be one that would do anything for-"

"Ser Jaime?" Cregan couldn't place the name, although it sounded familiar.

Lyarra ignored him, picking up another letter and silently reading it to herself as Cregan looked around.

"Cregan Snow." A voice came from the doorway.

"Lord Manderly." The man was unchanged from when he'd seen him last. Nearly sixty years old, with a massive belly and fingers the size of sausages. Appearances could be deceiving however, Cregan knew. "I did not believe it," the Lord of White Harbor continued. "when Marlon told me who he'd found in our fair city..."

"We heard rumors." Cregan said, bluntly.

"Rumors?" Lord Manderly looked down at his feet, or where his feet would be had his belly not shadowed them from sight.

"Dead starks." Cregan replied with no doubt that these 'rumors' had at least some hint of truth to them.

"Aye," Manderly sighed. "those rumors. How much have you heard?"

"Ned Stark executed for treason." Cregan began listing the names. "Robb Stark killed at a wedding."

"And nothing of my brother." Lyaraa finished.

"And you are, My Lady?"

"Lyarra Stark." She replied, with none of her usually cheeriness.

Manderly's eyes lingered for awhile. Her emerald eyes no doubt put her aside from any Starks he knew.

"Where is our brother?" Cregan cut to the chase, a dangerously subtle threat in his tone.

The silence and attempts to avoid all eye contact were certainly not good signs.

"Willam is gone." A feminine voice replied from behind the mass that was Lord Manderly. The girl had the same brown hair bound in a long braid that Cregan remembered well enough to recall the name. Wynafryd Manderly, the eldest grand-daughter of Lord Manderly. She bore a sad smile on her lips, a small babe in her arms.

The child had icy grey eyes. Stark eyes. Willam's eyes.

"Bran," Wynafryd spoke to the child as she took a few steps forward. "this is your uncle, Cregan."

"I-" He couldn't seem to find the words.

"Would you like to hold him?"

Cregan took the boy wordlessly, looking down at his eyes.

"I named him Brandon, after his grandfather." Wynafryd explained. "Will always spoke so highly of his father..."

"How?" Cregan asked, passing his nephew to Lyarra whom looked down at the child with all the light in her eyes absent.

"H- How?" Wynafryd seemed both confused and embarrassed.

"Tell me how." Cregan narrowed his eyes. "Tell me how he died."

Her eyes downcast, she told him that Willam was last sighted leaving a castle known as Riverrun in a hurry after the death of Edwyn Ryder. Cregan's stare broke at that. _"Ed."_ He thought, recalling the mans face clear as day. He was a cousin to Lord Ryder, whom would be none too pleased, but other than that Ed had been Willam's friend. The man was honorable and loyal to a fault. His death would've hit his brother harder than he'd let on. Cregan could easily see him leaving in a blind rush to avenge his friend.

From there she claimed he rode east with Helman Tallhart and Robett Glover's host to attack Duskendale in some mad quest for vengeance.

"Nonsense," Cregan voiced his doubts. "my brother was headstrong but _never_ stupid." From what little Cregan recalled from the maps of westeros he'd seen Duskendale was in the Crownlands, north of King's Landing, and an obvious trap in light of the enemies new alliances. Willam would have been the first man to speak out against a foolish move. According to the Manderly's the battle had been a slaughter with heavy losses on both sides, with the northern host falling back and encountering another host of foes at the rear. Wynafryd spun a tale of Willam's alleged heroics, vague and without detail or eye witnesses. A story. Nothing more. Nothing but lies and fables.

"It's the tale that Lord Bolton spins." Ser Marlon added.

"Bolton." Cregan snarled. "The very same man now sitting in Winterfell."

"The very same."

 _"Lies and fables."_ Cregan thought to himself.

"Bolton." Lyarra said, still staring at the child in her arms.

"You know the name?"

She shook her head. "It's old stories," she explained without looking away. "when the shipwright grew homesick he wrote all his knowledge down least his children forget where they came from. The tomes are old with many pages missing now, but the stories live on. You remember the one mother used to scare us away from the caves..."

"The flayed man?" Creganed remembered it in parts. His mother claimed the caves under Winterhold were haunted by a man without skin. The Flayed Man. He'd flay little child living and wear their faces as a mask. Looking back, and having explored the caves when they were old enough to no longer be afraid, they knew it to be nothing but a mothers attempt to keep her pups safe. A horrifying attempt, perhaps, but it worked. They never went to those caves until Rodrik declared that he wasn't afraid of monsters.

Lyarra smiled down at her nephew. "Mother was right in the end..."

"Roose Bolton." Lord Manderly spoke, his many chins seeming to tremble with anger as his sausage fingers curled into a fist. "My son, Wendel, was murdered with his king. Murdered, I say. I know that flayed bastard took part in it, him, and those fucking weasels!"

Cregan had not expected such rage from one so... overburdened.

Manderly seemed to read him like a book. "I am fat," he stated without a care. "but never think that makes me weak."

"Lyarra." Cregan said, looking away from Lord Manderly.

Her eyes darted up at him seemingly annoyed at being separated from the child.

"Go." Is all Cregan said, his voice as bitter and cold as winter.

She seemed to think of refusal for a moment, before a smirk crept onto her lips. She planted a kiss on her nephews forehead and passed him to his uncle before muttering, "So it begins", and vanishing into a cloud of raven feathers and black vapours. The Manderlys gasped as the raven appeared and flew out a nearby window.

"Winter is Coming." Cregan uttered as he watched the raven fly into the distance.


	22. Chapter 22: True to Our Word

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Reviews/Notes: I'm still thoroughly amused by the people quitting because I killed Willam, to me that means I did a good job. In other news I've gone fully off the rails now and going forward we enter very AU-style events. A new and powerful force showing up on the stage tends to shift things drastically for obvious reasons and honestly I enjoy writing these kind of chapters more than the 'same old' stuff. The War of Winter begins! And yes, Stannis is alive, he may even have PoV's.

Welcome to the War of Winter. Will it end before the Others show up? Who will cry over Willam next?! Let's find out...

* * *

 **Chapter 22: True to Our Word**

In the Merman's Court he stood in the shadow of Lord Manderly's large cushioned throne, beneath high walls of wood, decorated with all the creatures of the sea. At one end of the hall the mighty oak doors closed with a thud to the attention of a select few. Cregan looked out from the raised dais from the seclusion his hooded clock offered, eyeing the guests and admiring once more the painted floor that boasted crabs and clams and starfish, half-hidden among twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls were pale sharks prowling painted blue-green depths, whilst eels and octopods slithered among rocks and sunken ships. Shoals of herring and great codfish swim between the tall, arched windows. Higher up, near where the old fishing nets droop down from the rafters, the surface of the sea shun brightly.

"We're ready." He heard one Manderly man address his lord, sitting comfortably and eager in his throne.

Cregan's eyes caught the sight of a kraken and grey leviathan locked in battle beneath painted waves.

"On the signal." Lord Manderly said, hushed and eager still. Impatient for the dancing to being in earnest.

A moment later, with some difficulty, Lord Manderly got up from his seat and hushed his guests. Among those seated were knights and nobles and guardsmen alike deep in their cups merriment with more than a handful seemingly rather too drunk. "My lords!" Manderly caught the rooms attention. "Sers! I thank you for attending this gathering to celebrate my sons return, in these dark times after so much loss." It seemed all of the room, with a handful of exceptions, took the words to heart. "Let us dance!"

At his words, it was Lady Wynafryd that stepped out onto the dais from her seat.

"My granddaughter would be honored if you'd join us in this," he smiled at the girl. "as she graces us with her voice!"

Wynafryd was dressed in a fine dress, black with dark green embroidery made to seem like seaweed, her brown hair bound in a long braid.

"In a dark days of yore,

On the banks of our shore."

She was not the best singer Cregan had ever heard, but it was sweet enough, as the guests took to the clear floor below the dais and began a slow dance to match the apparent sadness in her voice. The girls father Ser Wylis smiled as she sang her tune. A blind man could see the pride in his eyes.

"We heard the winds sing,

And thus did take wing."

Cregan watched patiently as most of the guests took to the floor, all too happy to partake.

"We left the river behind and then carried on,

As we fled our shores, having done no wrong."

Unbeknownst to the guests, Cregan eyed shadows moving.

"We felt the cold winds, brushed the snow from our hair,

We came here to settle and return to nowhere."

The shadows stood silent as ghosts. Waiting.

"Our hope and our lands were lost,

Yet you smiled and we vowed."

The shadows were waiting still. Cregan gripped his sword.

"So by the gods who are you," Wynafryd sang louder, almost coking on the words. "that this would be allowed?"

The sound of bolts and steel against flesh and muscle met her words, although she did not cease her song through the chaos and cries of shocked guests. "Only a beast of a different coat," Cregan had since stepped forward, revealing his face and watching the massacre below him with a stony mask. "that's all the truth we know."

One of the guests, wearing nothing but a light blue doublet and dark leggings, took a bolt to the eye. Killing him instantly.

"In a coat of gold," Wynafryd continued to sing, though her voice was braking now it seemed. "or a coat of grey. We still have our claws."

The chaos was dying down now, a few finding their end with a knife across the neck as the world doubtlessly faded to black, angry gods waiting patiently to judge them. Cregan didn't put too much faith in the gods, but he'd lose no sleep over these dead men. "And ours are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours."

Manderly guards were busy cleaning their blades, while crossbowmen retrieved used and bloody bolts.

"And so he spoke," Lord Manderly spoke now, as his granddaughter had resorted to silent weeping. "and so he spoke, that lord of the twins."

Cregan watched in silence as Wynafryd was lead away by her father, the tears clear on her cheeks.

"But soon the snows will fall o'er his hall," Manderly finished, still seated comfortably on his cushioned chair. "with no one there to see..."

A single Stark banner rose up behind Manderly's throne, a running grey wolf now standing defiant beside the merman with dark green hair, carrying a black trident over a blue-green field. The bells of White Harbor tolled and rang out over it's people as the city woke from it's relative silence and seemed to rejoice in the blood of weasels.

* * *

Jon Snow hadn't taken time to process recent events and some small part of him knew he'd been avoiding facing the reality. His family was dead. It was not something he wanted to give voice to least he accept it and he certainly didn't want to do such a thing. He remember sparring with Robb and the promise his father made before he departed, a promise Jon never doubted he'd fulfill once he returned. And yet he never returned. He died, and with him Robb and Bran and Rickon too thanks to that bas-

"I'll kill him." The snarling voice of Arya broke Jon from his thoughts, a suggestion he'd never expect to hear from his little sister and yet one that held great appeal if he were to be entirely honest. Theon Greyjoy. Jon never trusted him but Robb had loved him like a brother and he always supposed Theon did too. It seemed not.

"Not if I get to him first." Jon muttered, and pictured Lady Catelyn belittling him for encouraging her daughter. A lady shouldn't kill, or something along those lines he'd expect to hear. _"You'd have wanted no less,"_ Jon thought bitterly. _"for how ladylike would you have been? Given the Lannister queen to judge?"_

Arya smirked for a moment, then hung her head and muttered her own curse.

"We'll get it back." Jon assured her. "With lord Cregan's help we'll get our home back."

Would they? Jon wished he felt as confident as he tried to sound. Arya had since brought her gaze back up from the table and seemed to see right through him. "Why?" She asked with obvious doubt. "Why would he help us? Mother never liked him, nor Will neither. It isn't his home..."

And how would it bring back the dead? That question was left unasked.

"No." Jon couldn't deny that. "It isn't, but it wasn't Will's either and he helped Robb regardless."

"Will's dead." Arya augured, her voice cracking for a moment.

"We don't know that."

"I do." Arya replied.

"Lady Lyarra disagrees."

Arya's eyes narrowed. "I don't like her."

"Oh?" Jon smirked.

"She's strange."

"She reminded me of you, when I met her." Arya scoffed at the notion, but Jon continued. "Wild as they come, a sword on her hip and a smirk on her lips. I thought she _was_ you, in fact, until I came to my senses." She was too old and those eyes were not Stark but for a mere moment, however foolish, he'd been reminded of his little sister.

"She's beautiful." Arya muttered.

Jon frowned at that. A silence passed between them for a moment, before Arya broke it.

"Will the Manderlys help us?" Arya asked.

Jon happily accepted the change of topic. "Father always said they were among the most loyal of his banners."

"Father never expected Bolton either."

A valid point, although Jon hoped the comparison a poor one. The two houses were hardly similar.

"True to Our Word." Jon echoed the Manderly words.

"Is that their words?" Arya asked. "I don't remember them all."

Jon smirked. "If you paid attention to your lessons perhaps you'd know."

She stuck her tongue out, causing her brother to laugh.

With a smile still on his lips at having clearly cheered his sister up, Jon continued. "At first, the words of the Manderly house were No Currents Mightier when they were lived near the mighty mander river in the south but after being driven out by their lieges of House Gardener and taken in by House Stark they changed their words to reflect a promise of loyalty to the Starks." Jon knew the story well, being one of the more memorable among the northern houses.

"True to Our Word." Arya tasted the words and seemed to like them.

"They'll help." Jon repeated himself. "They have to..."

The sound of bells grabbed his attention as a thousand different causes crashed through his skull. An attack? Lannisters? Boltons? Had the Manderly's betrayed them? The reasons for those bells, ringing so proud and defiant, could either spell fortune or doom for them. Jon's eyes darted to the door as it opened.

Ethan Greystark stood there, dressed in a grey doublet that proudly showed the sigil of his house. His wolf sat beside him.

"What's going on?" Jon asked, hand eagerly resting on the pommel of his blade.

Ethan smiled, running a hand through the grey fur of his wolf. "Come and see."

The bells rang out across the harbor and the city seemed to wake from some sleep Jon hadn't realized it was trapped in. _"When are bells ever good?"_ Jon wondered, looking out at the docks as White Harbors common folk swarmed the streets. Ethan's wolf was waiting for them, patiently, almost akin to a statue the way it sat so still.

"This way Lord Snow." A Sunstark man spoke, directing him to where Ethan stood beside Lord Sunstark and some fifty heavily armored men boasting greys and blacks; accompanied by numerous Manderly knights and guardsmen. Jon bulked at the use of that title. _"Lord Snow?"_ He thought, tasting words that made him uneasy. All the subtlety and whatever low profile they held previous was all but shattered as Ethan and Sunstark had raised their banners high around them; a single Stark banner now flying on the highest ships mast. Winter had come to White Harbor and soon enough it seemed every soul would know it.

Ghost broke him from his trance, licking the palm of his hand and seeming to will him forward. A number of the direwolfs grey cousins followed him like an odd little kingsguard of his own. There was to be no doubt who the alpha was in this pack, Jon thought with a smirk, his friends elevated status was made clear.

"Come on Jon." Arya voiced, impatient and eager as always.

With his sisters hand in his the pair walked off the pier surrounded by an escort of knights fit for royalty. Jon was too cautious and bewildered to notice that it seemed to be them being guarded, as they stood in the center of shields and wolves walking towards the Manderly keep through crowds of onlookers that whispered "Starks", "Snow" and "Winter among other things. They kept their voices hushed, uneasy, a feeling Jon could share with them well enough.

Arya? She was either oblivious to the situation or didn't seem to care, walking with purpose now ahead of her brother with Ghost at her side.

"King Robb!" One man in the crowed yelled.

A wave of silence washed over them, until that silence broke. The crowd ceased holding back.

"Winterfell!" Another cried.

"King in the North!

"Stark!"

That took hold, as the crowed chanted over and over again.

"Stark!," They cheered with wide smiles. "Stark! Stark!"

Jon would be afraid if they didn't seem so joyous. This wasn't a dangerous mob so much as a crowd of support for their cause, the citizens of White Harbor seemed to leap at the opportunity to finally speak their minds. _"They've been through a lot."_ Jon supposed. How many had lost loved ones to the Freys and Lannisters?

"You'd think we were Starks." Jon heard one Sunstark man comment.

"We're the best they've got," Another replied. "after all the Starks they lost."

Jon's thoughts flashed to Robb and his father, draining what little joy he'd found in the moment. These people cheered for anything not Bolton. Anything not Lannister or Frey. Anyone that promised justice. Anyone that promised them vengeance. _"Hope."_ Jon thought as he looked at them cheer. _"We've brought them hope."_

He'd seen the Winter Fleet first hand and the king that commanded it, as hard and ruthless as the lands he ruled and yet Rodrik Stark had been nothing but welcoming to him during what little interaction they'd had. Would he come here too? Jon supposed so. The thought brought him some hope of his own.

The bells still rang true as they entered under the portcullis and into the main courtyard, where the cause of the commotion become apparent. On high scaffolds dangled men wearing Frey colors with rope around broken necks and what appeared to be fruit across their clothing. "Frey men," Ethan explained from ahead of him. "executed on Manderly orders. Publicly." Jon assumed as much. A show of loyalty if he'd ever seen one, and it explained the crowds merriment.

Manderly guards had begun cutting down the dead freys with no care for them in the least, more pieces of meat than men. Afforded no decency. They may as well have been cattle freshly slaughtered yet Jon thought cattle would've been treated with more care than this. _"Good riddance."_ A voice far in the back of his mind snarled.

Jon was reminded of something King Rodrik told him when he'd diverted his eyes at the tale of Ibben's conquest. The dead and slaughtered had shocked him and he'd failed to hide his disgust. Rodrik had merely looked amused by his disgust, the hint of a sad smirk on his lips, as he bothered to explain his actions.

"What I want is meaningless." He'd stared at Jon with an icy glare that reminded him of his father. "From a simple lord to the mightiest king a ruler of any name lives, fights, and dies for his people. My desires. My wants. My fears. My very life. These things are as meaningless as the whims of my enemies, Jon Snow."

"What of honor?" Jon had asked, as defiant as he could muster. "What of mercy?"

"In war?" Rodrik asked, as if speaking to a child. "If you threaten my people; there is no man, beast or god that will save you."

Jon didn't know what threat the people of Ibben had offered Rodrik, but he guessed it must have been great to warrant such brutality. The sound of the crowds broke Jon from his memories as they died out and he noticed Cregan striding towards them, flanked by Manderly guards. The crowds began to disperse as they approached.

"Ethan," he addressed the lead before turning to Lord Sunstark. "and Sunstark."

"What happened here Prince Snow?" Sunstark asked, motioning to the dead Freys being carted off to gods knew where.

"Justice." A man spoke from beside Cregan, with a grey beard and silver-colored engraved armor looking like flowing seaweed.

"My lords." Cregan introduced his companion. "Ser Marlon Manderly, distant relation to Lord Manderly."

Sunstark scoffed, dismissing the old knight. "So much for subtlety, Snow, now the hole bloody city knows us."

"We're at war," Ser Marlon explained. "they have a right to know that much."

"War?" Sunstark snarled, looking to Cregan for answers.

"I have declared our intentions."

Sunstark seemed to pop a vein in his head. "You don't have the right to-"

"My brother is dead!" Cregan narrowed his eyes, daring the man to continue.

"Will." Ethan muttered.

Arya muttered "told you so" before Jon shot her a scolding look.

"Your certain?" Sunstark asked, all hostility gone from his voice.

"I am." Cregan answered simply.

"Prince Willam is said to have died valiantly in battle," Ser Marlon explained, his voice bitter. "but we think those Bolton lies."

"My brother is dead." Cregan repeated himself more for his own sake than anyone else. "I have every right, My Lord, to know full well what my brother will do. Stark blood has been shed by traitors, so mark my words, Rodrik will not let this stand." He paused for a moment. "Do you doubt that much?"

"No." Sunstark diverted his eyes.

"Good." Cregan said finally.

"Words needs to be sent."

"Lyarra will handle that," Cregan said with the ghost of a smile. "quick as the raven flies."

"My lord cousin will see you now, my lords."

"This way." Cregan motioned for them to follow.

The blood. It was the first thing that demanded Jon's attention, pooled out across painted floors with crabs and clams and starfish now half-hidden among a crimson sea. "My lords." The voice of Lord Manderly greeted them gladly from atop his cushioned throne. Jon's eyes watched servants mopping up thick blood from the painted floors.

"Lord Manderly." Cregan gave a nod in reply, as he motioned towards those in his company. "Allow me to introduce, the Lord of Sunstark and his eldest son."

With an absent minded nod, Lord Sunstark spoke "My Lord" before continuing to take in his surroundings.

Cregan ignored his lack of courtesy. "Ethan Greystark," there were a few hushed whispers at that. "eldest of his lord father."

"My lord." Ethan bowed ever so slightly. "My father sends his regards, he'd be here in person but he was needed elsewhere."

"Greystark." Lord Manderly tasted the name, having been informed of the houses continued existence some time ago for obvious reasons. Cregan had thought it best to prepare the man and avoid any shocks. "Welcome to my hall, lad, it seems we've more Starks now than I'd ever dreamed to find..."

"More still." Ethan smiled in reply. "Our kin are many."

Sunstark's boy muttered something incontinent, causing his father to chuckle.

"What happened here then?" Sunstark asked, bordering on a demand in truth.

"You have been told of the Red Wedding, surely?"

"Aye," Sunstark replied simply. "we heard rumors."

Cregan processed to explain in detail the events as Manderly had previous informed him. They had rumors, true, but precious few truths. He spoke of the Freys, Boltons and Lannisters and how Robb Stark met his end. He also spoke of what little information they'd gathered on Willam's last known movements.

"And what of guest rights?" Sunstark's son asked before Cregan could continue.

"What of them?" Lord Manderly replied, somewhat guarded.

"These men were your guests."

"They were traitors!" Ser Marlon barked.

"They were under your roof!" Sunstark replied, louder. "They'd eaten your brea-"

"Cursed is he who forsakes a guests rights." Lord Manderly spoke calmly. "By the laws of gods and men, young and old, those cursed few shall find no shelter under any roof; his own nor others. He shall find comfort in bread nor salt for he is cursed, the lowest of men." His words were less practiced and clearly said.

"House Frey has no rights," Ser Marlon explained. "not here. Not anywhere."

"This was justice." Lord Manderly added and seemed to dare a response.

Sunstark simply grunted before nodding his head.

"I'll shed no tears over dead Freys." Cregan broke the moments silence.

"Me neither," Ethan agreed. "nor Boltons either for that matter."

There murmurings of agreement at that. None seemed too concerned that the gods would be anything but glad for dead weasels.

* * *

It was some time after rooms were given to those nobles among the crew and various duties handed out to those under their command. Greystark men were tasked with guarding the nobles for the most part while the Sunstarks guarded the ship and their own lord. The initial wonder and awe at having arrived had long since washed away what peace had existed between the two branches; back to old tricks within an instant. Cregan split them up for good reason.

That being said, they couldn't avoid each other for long. "We don't have the men."

"What's wrong?" Ethan smirked at Lord Sunstark. "Afraid, my lord?"

Sunstark scoffed. "Your a fool to ignore facts, little pup."

"Just like this father." Sunstarks heir muttered to himself.

"Enough!" Cregan barked, hands on the table and glared at both sides. "Sunstark has a point, Ethan."

The man held a toothless smile.

"My bannermen include a dozen petty lords, and a hundred landed knights." Lord Manderly spoke his peace. "From the White Knife to Widow's Watch, two hundred score from the knightly and more from a dozen lords. We've some eight thousand men." The fat lord looked to his cousin, who nodded. "Aye, that's about the sum."

"And some fifty galleys," Ser Marlon added. "with a bare crew on each that's a few thousand more."

"Sailors." Sunstark countered. "Not fighters, no?"

Ser Marlon nodded, reluctantly.

"And these levies of yours?"

"Good men," Marlon argued with a stern look in his eyes. "eager to fight."

Once more, Sunstark scoffed. "Green boys more like."

"They will-"

"Again," Cregan interrupted. "his lordship has a point. I've been your folk speak of how any man or boy able to wield a spear is welcome so easily into the barracks." It was the truth of the matter, however may men Manderly lost in the War of Five Kings, they'd made great efforts to fill the ranks quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

"They'll fight." Ser Marlon assured.

"I don't doubt that." Cregan replied, and he didn't. "I simply doubt how long they'll live to speak of it."

"None in the North could claim to be at full strength, Prince Cregan." Lord Manderly spoke. "The war cost us much. However I assure you, among my number boasts the greatest heavy knights you've ever seen. This I swear in sight of the gods, they will do more than fight. They shall win."

Ignoring another muttered curse from Sunstarks boy, Cregan simply gave a nod in response. He hoped those words were true. "What of Boltons number?" He moved the topic away from Manderly pride and boasting. "What can our enemy muster, my lord? Let us claim eight or nine thousand at best in our ranks..."

"Bolton has some six thousand mounted men." Lord Manderly explained, the number not seeming to faze him. "Alongside a few thousand of Houses Frey, Ryswell, Dustin, Cerwyn, Hornwood and half of House Umber under Hother Umber." Cregan did not like those odds. At his best guess of some thousand or two per minor house that brought Bolton's number to easily beat Manderly's with those men of Frey, Dustin, Cerwyn and Hornwood alone. Not good odds.

"Cerwyn's there out of fear," Ser Marlon added. "while the Hornwood men are small in number at best; more Bolton than anything."

"Ryswell rule the Ryder lands now, no?" Ethan asked.

"Aye," Marlon nodded. "after a rebellion long past. Ryswell would be Bolton's truest ally, by my guess."

"And the others are not?"

"No." Marlon eyed the Bolton figure that was laid on the table, surrounded by Frey, Dustin, Crewyn, Hornwood, Ryswell and Umber alike. "Umber plays both sides, I've little doubt that they hold no true loyalty to Roose. Cerwyn is too close to Winterfell to refuse a summons. Hornwood is a puppet and Dustin is no different."

"I'll deny having ever said it," Ethan paused to stare across the table at his fathers rival. "but Sunstark is right. We don't have the men..."

"Not yet." Lord Manderly boasted. "When will your kingly brother arrive, Prince Cregan?"

 _Prince_ Cregan. Gods knew he'd never get used to that title, nor it sounding so sincere coming from this fat lord. "Our fleet left with new from braavos the moment we departed for your city, my lord. At a guess my dear sister would've met with the fleet not long after Rodrik had already set sail. Assuming all is well? He will not be long."

All seemed to take comfort in that. "And how many men can we expect?"

Cregan looked at the merman lord and thought hard for a moment. "The Winter fleet boasts some two hundred on a peaceful day, but Rodrik built many more for his little quest. He once told me they now numbered in the three hundreds, although he was always one to overstate such numbers, even to family."

"Let us assume two hundred is the best we can expect."

Ser Marlon agreed with his lord. "That's still an impressive number."

"Depending on the class of ship you've an average of anywhere form a hundred to three hundred men on each deck." Cregan paused to add up the numbers, such things hardly being his strong suit. "Forty thousand?" He guessed, not entirely sure if that was correct, but it was close enough. "Including sailors and the like."

"There isn't a sailor on the islands that cant swing a sword." Sunstark added with some small hint of pride.

"That'll solve your number problem!" Lord Manderly let out a hearty laugh, his fat sausage fingers grasping his belly as he chuckled.

"Aye," Ser Marlon replied with a most genuine smile. "at best that leaves us with almost fifty thousand men. More than enough."

Cregan didn't want to point out that his brother left a number of ships behind for his conquest nor that he'd have been forced to leave even more behind at Ibben to hold his new lands. _"His lords would never accept abandoning the island,"_ he thought to himself. _"not after so much blood was spent to seize it."_

It seemed, from his look, that Sunstark shared these thoughts. Although he did not opt to share them.

"We'll see," Ethan spoke with the same look of concern. "once His Grace arrives. No need for guess work."

Cregan didn't know when, but somebody had placed numerous wolf figures surrounding White Harbor. He assumed to represent Rodrik's numbers. _"Should I have told him of my concerns?"_ Cregan wounded for a moment before dismissed the idea. As the boy said, they'd know soon enough how many the king boasted.

It would be enough, of that Cregan had no doubts. Forty thousand. Two. Hells, even Ten would be enough to balance the odds.

"There is a final matter of note." Ser Marlon's voice broke Cregan from hos thoughts. The knights hand rested atop a wooden stag figure.

"Stannis Baratheon." Lord Manderly sighed at it's mention.

"Baratheon?" Cregan raised a brow, unaware of this.

"The fat king was a Baratheon." Ethan added. "Wasn't he?"

"Aye." Lord Manderly shifted uncomfortably in the chair he'd long since seated himself onto. Cushioned. Naturally. "He's the old kings brother, showed up some time ago at the Wall. Saved it from some wildling horde I heard... although not before Castle Black was all but overrun by the savages. He'll be a problem."

"Stannis." Cregan tasted the word and found it bitter. "His plan is what exactly?"

"To rally the north to his cause."

Sunstark scoffed, but allowed Manderly to continue.

"I'd originally planned to join with the man if his smuggler returned Lord Rickon, but your arrival changes things."

"Rodrik wont bow to another." Cregan explained, now rather concerned. "How many does this would be king have in his ranks?"

"He's won the support of half of House Umber, commanded by Mors Umber." Lord Manderly listed off all he knew. "It's said he's gotten wildlings to his side too, although those may be Bolton tales to discredit him. I could not say. Last we heard the man had begun his march, south, towards the Dreadfort."

"He aims to seize the Botlon seat." Cregan mused.

"That'll never work." The voice of Jon Snow snapped everyone's attention to him, and the boy seemed to shrink under the rooms gaze. He'd been silent until now. "The Dreadfort will learn of his approach long before he can ever reach the castle," Jon explained. "and Moat Cailin will fall quickly from the north, which means that Bolton would be free to march against Stannis with his entire force. The Dreadfort could hold a siege for a hundred years before Stannis could seize it..."

Lord Manderly nodded. "The lads right. It's the plan of a southern that doesn't know these lands."

Ser Marlon casually moved the Stag figure towards the Dreadfort, and those of House Bolton towards it too. Cregan stared at the figures as a plan grew in the back of his mind. The room chattered on about potential moves and outcomes and how best to handle both sides. Cregan kept silent. The next move was Boltons to make.

* * *

Note(s): The troop numbers are a tough guess, human error and Cregan's lack of math know-how is meant to be shown mixed with a bit of boasting and exaggerated claims. Dorne does much the same with it's numbers. Lets not forgot however many losses Rodrik may have taken during the Ibben campaign; although regardless it'll be more than enough to scare the living shit off Roose. I've no desire to have Rodrik show up and have no difficulties... but his force is still quite formidable against a weakened and bloodied North that's far from united or content under Bolton rule. Will he fail? I doubt that. Will it be easy? I very much doubt that too.

Winter is coming. In the books the snows are no laughing matter, and I aim to take this heavily into account.

All of that being said I'm very much full steam ahead for Rodrik's imminent arrival at the head of his great army. Stannis is/might be heading for the Dreadfort, as in the books it's Jon who convinces him otherwise and without Jon there who's to say if Stannis would've gone through with his Dreadfort plan or not; but he'd have taken the wildlings for certain and The Night's Watch would be in a far worse state than if Jon had been there to command it. We'll cover it in depth later.


End file.
